Genuine Tonkin

Genuine Tonkin

10/13/10

 I just couldn’t wait for Sunday to fish my new bamboo rod, at Oil Creek, I received at the ‘One Fly’ competition last weekend. I couldn’t wait to feel the cork handle grip or cast the slow action stick. After work Wednesday I hurried home and dressed for some evening fishing. I hurriedly nail knotted a 5X tapered leader to my new 5wt. Cortland Sylk fly line. I grabbed my camera, rod,  jumped in the van and headed to the nearest brookie stream.

I pull the brown cloth rod sock out of my homemade cardboard cylinder tube. Unwrapping the sock I pull out the bamboo fly rod. The smooth mustard colored cork grip feels soft in my overworked tradesman hands. As I continued to slip the rod out of the cloth I take notice of the royal blue thread wraps shining against the golden yellow cane shaft. I began to feel how Jeremiah Johnson must have felt when he pulled the flintlock musket out of frozen Hatchet Jacks stiff fingers during that winter in the Smokey Mountains way back when. I felt that twinge when he grasped the balanced musket and realized he was holding a Hawkins, a genuine Hawkins muzzleloader. I was now holding the cane fly rod, ‘my’ genuine Tonkin Cane fly rod.
  After fitting it together it looks like a piece of art work. Some admirers wouldn’t even think of fishing with this restored antique but just hang it on a wall so others can admirer it with him. Some fly guys might only use it once or twice just to get a feel and then display it in their fly tying room above their tying bench or the like. In my hands it is going to be fished, fished like it was meant to be. It is as if I'm giving it a new life. It is almost as if I'm taken a step back in time. Away from the graphite, boron and other resins that make up today's modern fly rods
 I slip the reel seat ring over the reel foot of the Martin Classic mc78 reel. I thread the leader and Sylk fly line through the double foot rod guides and through the tip top, the reel clicks with each pulled length of line. The rod is a bit long, at 8 ½ feet, for the small creek so overhand casting will be nearly impossible with the closeness of the trees and brush that line the creek bank. Sidearm casting and roll casting will have to be my choices. With the creek running clear and low the fish will take a pattern easy like in the slow water so I feel I should use a pattern I can see beneath the surface. I decide to knot on an orange egg pattern. I put a small quid of Red Man in the side of my cheek and head towards the water.

 I spot two fish holding in a slow shallow tail out. Fresh fallen colorful leaves line the shore and the bottom of the stream. A few fallen leaves flow with the current both below and upon the surface. I stand back from the creek bank and begin my sidearm false casts to draw line out. I plop the orange egg pattern just upstream from the two fish. The slow current turns it away from the fish. A few more casts and I get a good drift towards the fish and one takes notice. The egg drifts within range of the trout and he takes it in without much lateral movement. I pull back the cane shaft and my first bamboo fish rushes upstream in anger as the rod bends half way down the shaft. I let the reel click a few rounds before palming the reel to a stop and the cane rod bends into the thicker bottom section of the shaft. The trout retreats with quick jerking tugs towards the pressure as the stick dampens any sudden movement by the trout. He circles downstream and I lift the rod and bring a rainbow to shore. The other trout is aware of the danger and swims away from my next cast and drift.

 I slowly move downstream to a more quicker current and sit on the heels of my boots. The trout beneath are visible through my polarized glasses that block out the glare of the shining evening setting sun. I cast upstream and follow the drifting leader with the tip of my rod. The golden yellow Tonkin cane extends like a branch above the leafy rocky shoreline and clear running water.

 I watch as the orange egg pattern disappears in the mouth of a trout that’s oblivious of my presence. I lift the hook set and the noticeable orange belly brook trout swims ragged through the shallow moving current. Again I feel each quick jerk through the rod shaft and watch the bamboo fluctuate with each movement of the fighting fish. Surface water swirls as the brookie turns and scurries downstream towards a fallen log. I lift the rod tip quickly and palm the reel spool tight keeping the fish from fleeing to the log. The strength of the fly rod now turns the trout towards me and he flips helplessly along the water line.

 I move down further and see a pod of trout holding close to the downed log. I move behind the trout and work downstream from them into a riffling draw. After feeling I gave the trout enough time to settle down I cast upstream and let the egg pattern drift into the pod. After no takers I try a couple of nymph patterns and settle on a white San Juan worm pattern. I have a taker but I’m late on the upstream hook set. Upstream from the pod I notice a swirl and see a fish sip something from on top of the surface of the slow moving current. My heart skips a beat, my eyes squint slightly and a smirk forms on my face. Can I make one rise to a dry I wonder? I spit tobacco juice on a lucky stone and make my decision.
 I clip off the San Juan and while tying on a #20 Blue Quill I’m still smirking and look over my cheater glasses frame at the lead fish. I make sure the dry fly is secure and pull line out of the reel. I gently start an angled false cast keeping my line above the water. I feel the slow action of the cane rod flex with each swing. It takes a few sidearm forward casts to lay the dry within the fishes sight but still far enough upstream for a short drag free drift to fool the trout. He takes notice as I see his tail fin swiftly sway and watch him rise to the dry. ’Fish On’ I say to myself out loud as I grin and let the brook trout tire himself out fighting my line and rod. I spit a wad of tobacco onto the colorful leaf covered bank before bringing the fish to hand.

 The evening darkens and I succeed in catching one more brook trout on an orange sucker spawn before calling it a day. The cane rod fulfills my trout fishing need for the day and met my expectations. After wiping it off I slip it back into the rod sock and slide it into its case. I find a Macanudo Robust Ascot in my wicker creel and light it up for the short drive home. I can't wait to try the bamboo rod out on open water to feel a long overhand cast of 30 feet or so of fly line.
Heck, Sunday's right around the corner!!

________doubletaper

Combat Fishing Parade

Combat Fishing Parade

We stood, at 5:30 am, just off the lake shore as two foot waves crashed against our knees and shins trying to push us back on to dry land. Donny assured me that the lake would calm down as the morning progressed.
 There were 5 of us total who stood in the darkness, forfeiting sleep, just to get a good fishing spot in the hopes that steelhead would gather in front of us wanting to make a run towards the shallow creek. The lack of rain kept the creek very low and the chance of a steelhead crossing the shallows of the pebbled and sandy beech to the creek were slim. Inevitably they would come, shallow water or not, and we were there to greet them.
 Like every year they would come by the hundreds sooner or later. We also knew, like every year, we would be joined by other steelhead hunters, how many we weren’t exactly sure.
 The lake air wasn’t just chilly, for early October, it was cold, at least compared to the warm and mild September. Duofold undershirt, fleece sweat and insulated flannel button down kept my upper half warm and wind resistant under my fishing vest. My 3mm neoprene hip waders kept my bottom half dry and warm from the lake temperature.
 We stood patiently as the first sign of light appeared in the east behind the peninsula. A red glow found enough space between the heavily clouded sky to filter through and give us hope it would be light soon.

 I’ve stood many a morn in the deep forest gazing out through the early darkness, in hunting season, quietly waiting for a sight of a deer. How many dim lit early morns I sat against a tree watching for a lone squirrel foraging for nuts? This morning was different. The only reason to be out this early for steel was to get some pleasant angling in before combat fishing with the soon to be crowds.

 As Donny and I stood chatting in the darkness, streaks of light would be seen across the shore from headlights turning into the parking lot behind us. The more daylight appeared the more headlights would grace the lake shore.
 I didn’t need much light to cast my white bunny leech out into the darkness of the lake. Being bored I started my wind up and fished the tide. Soon Donny followed suite with a white woolly bugger. The indicator and bobber fishermen stood with their lines still connected to their hook keepers. It was still too dark for them to see out onto the lake to see their indicators. Soon the waves calmed down as Donny predicted and as if someone turned on a switch, the lake shore lit up with daylight. The rest of the group started to cast and fish into the opaque water. It was quiet along the lake shore as a cool breeze blew in now and then. We stood with eagerness but content under the gun metal gray clouds that hovered above us waiting for that first steel!
 Donny hooked up first with a good fight of a rambunctious steelhead. His Sage rod took on the beast as it flexed with each pull and quick turning movements. Donny got the beast to shore and a big smile lit up on his face.

Facing the fish towards the lake the fish took off in defeat. Hook ups were sporadic in the early morn with only a few fresh fish brought to hand. We early guys had gotten the best location with action as compared to the parade of late arrivals. Occasionally we’d hear a fish splashing behind us upon the shallow pebbled sand trying to make their way to the shallow creek. Other times I would turn to see one retreating back towards the lake.
 It was within the first hour of daylight when I felt a line tap my hat brim and I felt a tug on my vest. Donny had somehow got out of rhythm with his fly stick and his wild false cast landed his bugger into my vest. We laughed as I jokingly said I was glad I had my safety sunglasses on. He commented that I should have worn a Kevlar vest.

Soon we could see swirls atop the water made from schooling steel beneath. Hook ups were more frequent. Donny and the tandem fisherman next to him were connecting more often than the rest of us. From behind us some kid squeezed between Donny and the next guy to his right. Donny let him know about the closeness in other than kind words. The kid gave him a little more room forcing the other guy a bit to his right. I noticed the tandem guys were hooking up more often than the rest of us. I also noticed they had more disconnects and the ones they did get in usually had a fly hooked to the dorsal fin or a pelvic or pectoral fin, just saying!
 The bait casters to my left and I kept a comfortable distance between us so we had more room to cast and fish in front of us. We shared the space and kept track when one was fishing deep, with a bobber or streamer fishing to keep from tangling.
 Two guys had a double going as we waited for them to get their fish under control and nearer to them. When I seen the two getting their fish to cooperate I roll cast my sucker spawn out into the lake not too far out. It didn’t take long for my orange top indicator to go down and pull towards the open lake. I yanked back the rod, the line tightened and I felt the massive weight on the other end as I called out “FISH ON’. Wet fly line flung water as it raised from coils upon the water in front of me, through my fingers and rod guides. The clicking reel gave alarm to the speed of the rod bending fish. The fish stayed below the surface as it pulled with more of its weight than speed of a steelhead, if that makes much sense. I wasn’t in a hurry to force this guy in, I seen too many escapees and snapped lines from earlier hook ups. Only I knew the strength of this fish through my clinched grip and tightening arm muscles when I tried to turn him towards me. The fish finally broke water in front of us just enough to show its bronze brown dark spotted back. I kept tension as the big brown went deep again and pulled line out to my left.
 The guy beside me asked if I wanted him to net the big fish. I accepted his voluntary request and tried to keep the brown at bay while he retrieved the net from the bank. The brown was only a few feet from two fishermen on the far left and got a good eyeball on the big brown. He rose displaying his thick back and dove again as I kept tension on the line. Beneath I felt the shock in the line as he tumbled beneath and my line went slack. Bringing in line I saw the tippet shown signs of the line breakage at the hook knot. That’s fishing!!
 As time went on more fisher people participated in the parade. Soon colored power bait would be seen flying through the air like jawbreakers being thrown from parading fire trucks. Sucker spawn and streamers were being cast along with bobbers and indicators displaying an array of candy looking objects. Spectators sat on lawn chairs, or stood, on the beach to watch this undeniable spectacular event. Caught fish would be seen taking air in acrobatic fashion as kids watched in astonishment. Fly lines were tossed in the air with uncontrolled loops by amateurs but also straight lines and perfect loops would be seen gracefully air born by those with more experience. Caught fish splashed upon the watery bank and then displayed to loved ones or friends for a classic memorable picture.
“FISH ON” “RIGHT, RIGHT, FAR RIGHT” “LEFT, HARD LEFT” were shouted be lucky fishermen like a conductor giving orders to their marching band.
I even saw a few clowns among us……

 Swirls of fish would come in and with that things got more hectic. On my next big catch my indicator sunk instantly. I set the hook hard and the fish took off like a “‘hell cat’ with tail afire!”
“FISH ON, RIGHT” I called out. Guys quickly reeled in as my fly line danced across the lake surface following the fish. There was no way stopping him and when I seen my white 20lb backing shoot through the guides I double clicked the drag knob tighter to slow him down. He felt the excessive pressure and leaped, exploding, out of the water some 45 yards away. We watched as the big fat fish cleared water and showed his athletic ability in somersaulting back into the “Big Pond.” I put the screws to him and he reluctantly followed, briefly. My line went slack and he won the scramble freeing himself. That’s fishing!
Sometimes you can do everything you think is right and still not bring a steelhead to hand.
 I brought in the line and noticed my sucker spawn was still dangling from the 6lb tippet. Within the next fifteen minutes I hooked up 4 times, briefly, before I inspected my sucker spawn only to find that the hook was bent open. Lesson learned!
 Donny and others were still hooking up while I was tying another spawn on. All of a sudden a guy splashed his way over and squeezed in, within arms length, between me and the considerate bait casters. Our comfort zone was now lost to the ignorant fly fisherman. He instantly hooked up before my next cast. I took a couple of steps back as he took two steps forward to keep from elbowing me. By the time he got the fish in my patients were thin and I was about to say something to him when Donny noticed he knew the guy. I kept quiet as they talked about walleye fishing.
 More late new comers started to squeeze in and jockey for position. Kayakers, out on the lake, paddled closer for some action. One actually got hooked up with a shore fisherman as their lines stretched from lakeshore to kayak. Hooked fish were being lead in or being fought on tangled lines, limp flying bobbers and indicators. Elbow and rod flinging combaters were raging havoc over the once mild mannered crowd. Spectators watched as the world of steelhead fishing in Lake Erie became a combat zone.
 I was standing still waiting to cast when a line passed by my eyes and a hook lodged into my rod gripping finger. I yelled, to stop any further action of the two fishermen untangling their lines. The pain shot through an arm nerve to my brain as I winced. I quickly dislodged the hook with a tug and I was glad to see blood flow from the puncture, hopefully seeping out any loose metal or would be infectious germs from the fish hook.
 I had enough at that point and gave up the combating parade. I didn’t have the ignorant mannerism that was now so prevalent among the parade of anxious fishermen. I stepped back and joined Gary and the parade spectators on shore.

 Gary and I left for new water to explore. A new creek and mild Fuente cigar calmed my nerves and I was almost back to normal by days end, almost! Ha!


______________doubletaper

September Ties

September Ties

 The water ran clear so I made long casts with my Triple Threat streamers out into the moving stream so I wouldn’t be detected. The Triple Threat landed just below the pine boughs and I let it swing beneath the quicker current mid-stream. When it got directly downstream from me I began to short strip it in. It cut through the water with little resistance as I envisioned the Polar Fiber shedding off the water and current moving it like a minnow. I felt the line tighten and my rod hand felt the balanced 4wt all of a sudden get heavy on the rod tip. I strip set the hook with a sharp tug and than had to loosen my grip on the fly line from the pulling force on the other end. The heavy fish took the Triple in a deep slower pool below and I was hoping I could keep him from moving into the quick water mid-stream.
 The fish stayed deep and thrashed about as my 4wt tip flexed and rebounded with each thwart. He didn’t seam to want to move into the fast current so I leaned back with the rod to apply more pressure. The 7 foot rod bent well into the middle and I took in line as the fish splashed towards me, just subsurface. His maroon lateral line extended onto his gill plates giving good reason to believe he’s been around for a while. I lifted the rod high with my right hand as I reached down and netted the rainbow with my left. After he settled down I unhooked the Triple Threat and released him back into the stream.

Tying ones own flies are an essence of the sport of fly fishing. It is the substance, in other words, that sets one apart and shows character from those who do not. I’m not saying that those that do not or can not tie their own flies are not true fly guys but one who ties, I believe, have a better feeling of accomplishment when they catch fish on their own fly. I get a greater satisfaction when one catches fish on my own ties and especially if it is a pattern of my own creation.
 I have been experimenting with different Grass Hopper patterns for some years now. I have a tying book that has three pages dedicated to hopper patterns. Some are more realistic than others. The more realistic ones have more material and thus will take more time to tie and more patience to do so. Some are simple silhouette patterns that I’m sure will catch some fish but somehow don’t appeal to me and therefore my confidence level using these patterns will be nil. I believe that confidence catches more fish than luck so a pattern must appeal to me or be proven to catch fish before I have confidence in it.
 Most of the patterns have pure yellow bodies. Behind the shop I have inspected the hoppers around during these hot summer dry evenings. None of the hoppers have pure yellow bodies. Their bodies range from having a faded yellow to brownish to even an olive tint. The only way to match the shade that would fool more trout, in my opinion, is to tie my own. Besides, if I was going to use something with a yellow body and a half decent silhouette I would use a stimulator pattern or the like. I feel if I want to imitate what I see and find along the fields and streams I should at least use a similar color.
 I looked over all the hopper patterns and came up with my own concoction. After tying a few, I felt, they were fairly easy to tie, didn’t take a long time and looked convincible. The only way to find out was to try them out and hope they float well.

                                   hopper pattern

Streamers on the other hand should look fishy. I tie Triple Threats to look and imitate bait fish like minnows. Studying the balance of colors and shades of minnows, from top to belly, I came up with my own blend of Polar Fibers. Adding a few strands of sparkle gave them that shiny lateral line of most minnows. I tied them in a few different shades and the only way to find out how well they work was to try them out. That’s what this past outing was all about.
                                Triple Threat

 Jim and I wanted to concentrate on trout fishing. Because of the low water conditions of the small creeks and warm water conditions of the bigger streams we needed cooler water as to not stress out the hold over trout we would catch. There are only a couple of cooler waterways nearby, the Kinzua Dam area and the East Branch of the Clarion. We selected, on Sunday, the East Branch.

 We reached the East Branch in the early morn under gray skies. Jim took the water temperature and it read at 59 degrees. The bottom release dam keeps the water cool practically all summer. Jim was hoping to get some top water action but with the shady, overcast sky, I didn’t think there would be much of a hatch on this September day. Terrestrials, I felt, were Jim’s best bet and I handed him 2 sizes of my new hopper patterns to try.
 It wasn’t long before Jim hooked into a trout with a nymph midge pattern. I was stripping buggers and my new Triple Threat patterns in the deeper runs and slow water. We fished the morning without any more hook ups. I did have a lazy trout mouth a white bunny leach and another follow a Triple Threat but they wouldn’t take it aggressively and I got skunked for the morning. Jim said he had a few followers on his nymphs but none would take.
 After lunch it warmed up a tad and occasionally the sun would peek down to see how we were doing. It didn’t take long for Jim to disappear around a bend as I slowly worked my way downstream tossing caddis dries, beetles and streamers.
 I caught a small brook trout on a caddis dry before I caught the bigger rainbow, I described earlier, in a nice stretch of pines and boulders. A couple of hours passed by and I headed up to where we started in the morning and decided to practice my nymph fishing for the upcoming Steelhead season.
 I stuck a Hupman Vintage Cameroon stogie in my mouth and took out my nymph box. I decided to use a #10 orange Humpy as an indicator and tied a brown Gold Ribbed Hares Ear as a dropper. I took my time fishing a nice run of deeper water and a slow stretch nearby while enjoying my cigar. I eventually found myself on a big flat boulder in the middle of the river. I happened to look downstream and seen Jim heading my way while fishing.
 On one cast, upstream from my rock, into a flow of choppy water I saw a flash. From my higher elevation, on the rock, I watched the fish rise, take a look at my Humpy and then disappear back into the rippling water. I still had the Hares Ear nymph on but he evidently wasn’t interested in that either. I cast out a few more times but his curiosity was full filled and he didn’t want any more look-sees. I drifted the nymph and Humpy under the pine trees but to no avail. I decided to try one of my hopper patterns to possibly get the trout’s attention again. I had just gotten done tying on the hopper when I seen Jim was within talking distance.

How’d ya do?” I asked
“Caught about 5 trout on top with the hopper pattern you gave me earlier!” he replied. “All were in the fast water and under the pines.”
He also mentioned he caught a few on nymph patterns.

While he was casting and fishing below I cast out into the choppy water. The hopper bopped up and down upon the waves without a rise from beneath. My next cast was upstream further and closer to the bank. I had the rod tip held high and kept my eyes on the drifting hopper. I seen the turning flash of the trout and waited for him to strike the floating hopper.
“There he is” I called out to Jim. “Got’em!”
The fish fought well in the stronger current as the rod showed a good fighting fish. I stepped down from the boulder and reaching down netted the nice trout.

 We fished a little longer until the chill of the water and the coming of dusk cooled things down considerably. By this time I was ready to call it quits. Jim said “he was ready whenever I was” and we headed to the van.
 Back at the van we put our gear away and headed to where we left his truck at earlier this morn.

 Jim and I haven’t fished together for a month or so and it was good to get out with him being he loves to trout fish as much as I do. I still recall the first time we met back in May in 2009. He wanted to learn how to fly fish and I showed him the ropes and helped him out. He hasn’t touched his spinning rod since!!

 After dropping him off at his truck I headed on home through the darkness. The Fuente cigar, I lit up earlier, kept me awake for the rest of the ride home.
" It looks like I have a new pattern that should work for them steelhead!"

____________________~doubletaper

more Triple Threats

The Nature of it All

The Nature of it All

Saturday 9/11/10
With my 3-in-1 back pack loaded with my float tube, fins, pump and fishing gear I head down the forest access lane excited to do some largemouth bass fishing. I would have liked to have gotten out earlier but I wanted to make sure I had a filling breakfast for the days fishing excursion in the remote backwoods swamp in the ANF.
The morning is quietly still on my walk down the lane. The cool morning air keeps my lungs alive and fresh with each breath. The grass is wet with dew as small spider webs are noticeable time to time from the morning dampness. 35 minutes into my stroll I come within vision of Buzzard Swamp. I stop along the trail and take in the scenery and quiet solitude of it all.
 The last layer of fog lies upon the water, soon to burn off with the rising sun. There’s a light haze higher above the pond as the rising moisture dissipates in thin air. Old gray tree trunks stand within the pond as I remembered from my last visit. Maybe a few less branches extend from their frames having broken off from high winds or just snapping from age and wear. Overgrown grassy and green fields grace the outlying area with tan tassels and yellow flowering buds adding a lighter hue to the green vegetation. Strong healthy, forest green, trees partially line the pond as the weaker fallen trees now make good cover, within the water, for pond life. Streaks of white clouds, as if made be passenger jets, catch my attention as they never seem to end forefront of the baby blue morning sky.

 The scenery before me is one that any nature loving puzzle builder would love to piece together. A scene, I feel, that is worth painting on canvas. I can picture this as a wall mural in a ’man’s cave’. I can see myself sitting and looking into this mural imagining and being a part of it at any given moment.

 Within 15 minutes more I stand upon the man made earth work looking down across the pond. The fog has lifted and the water is as smooth as ice, almost conceivable to walk across. Except for a distant crow all is quiet before the pumping action of my two stage hand pump begins to inflate my u-tube.

 Packed and ready to float, I sit inside the tube and Velcro the Vapor fly rod in front of me. Finning backwards towards the left bank I stop within casting distance of a downed, partially submerged, branchy windfall. Small waves roll towards the bank from my presence as I position the fly rod for my first cast.

I false cast line and then plop the frog popper just shy of the windfall. As the popper sits I hear the lip smacking of a blue gill as my bass popper bobs with each peck. I strip it in with gurgling effect. As I fin my way, casting towards the shoreline, I am finally rewarded with an aggressive rise that propels the bass out of the water. With a good hook set and a winning skirmish I bring the bass to my float tube and lip him on the apron. Only about 11” I unhook him and reach for my camera. A quick lively flop or two and he flips back into the water without a picture. “No problem”, 1 bass in the first 10 minutes of fishing, I should be able to produce a few more worth picture taking. Constant casting of poppers and sliders only produce a few ’gills’ with many not able to be hooked by the big hooks on my bass poppers. About an hour goes by when a wind kicks up and constantly blows across the pond. The sun never produces the warmth the weathermen called for. My casting arm and stroking legs get a good work out in the windy conditions. I fin and fish my way around the pond not really feeling I had missed a strike from any bass. By 3:30 I finally call it quits and return to the bank-side. My bass streamers, poppers and big dry flies failed to entice any more bass.

Up on the earth work I push my straw hat tighter upon my pate for fear that the stronger wind might grab a hold and toss it in the pond. I slowly change out of my chest waders and lay my gear upon the grassy area. I place each item strategically in the 3-in-1 back pack and lift it on my shoulders. I take one last look over the wavy pond while I pull out an Arturo Curly Head cigar from its cellophane wrapper. Cupping my hands, from the wind, I light the end and puff on the brown wrapped butt until smoke appears in my cupped hand. Releasing my hands the smoke escapes into oblivion.
 The long walk back is sobering but my surroundings keep my hearing and vision attentive. Bear dung occasionally is found along the path as well as deer droppings. A few barking squirrels are heard when the wind dies down. The cigar keeps me relaxed and not hurrying in my pace. As I reach the van I drop my pack and reach into the cooler for a cold Miller GD. The cold beer quenches my thirst and wets my palate from the dryness of my cigar smoking. After putting my gear away I check the time at 5:20. My stomach growls with anticipation of food. I recheck the straps, holding the canoe on the roof, and take off towards the Kelly Hotel for wings and a brew or two.

Sunday 9/12/10
 I awake to the growling of my innards. I figure it’s either from the wings at the Kelly or the mixture of Jim Beam and Squirt I consumed at Rays Hot Spot last night. I noticeably hear an occasional rain drop falling upon the canoe on top of the van roof. The rain, throughout the night, has ceased and upon opening the side door I conclude, if I hurry, I might be able to get a little fishing in before the next shower. Not wanting to waste time I sip on a glass of Sunny D while gearing up for some river trout fishing. My movement is slow at first but as my joints loosen up I begin to move with ease. I eat a slice of cold breakfast ham and enjoy a thawed out blueberry muffin.
 I string up my 5wt Scott rod and rig it with 7 ½’ of 6x tapered leader. I toss a few trout boxes into my rain jacket pockets and head out to the mouth of the creek that empties into the river.

 From along the bank I watch a flock of ducks drifting with the current, mid-river. A heavy blanket of fog consumes the tops of mountainous trees, hiding any sky above. Thick forested trees stand almost lifeless as there is no wind to rustle their leaves. A few crows caw out in the distant and a lone squirrel barks from across the river upon some unknown branch. His barking denotes hunting season will soon be upon us. The warmness of September will give way to the cool mornings and chilly evenings of the up coming month of October. Soon the forested green trees of summer will mystifyingly transform the forest into the splendid colors of autumn. I can picture fidgety chipmunks and annoying pine squirrels chirping at my presence. I can almost hear the sounds of paws scampering upon dried fallen leaves, ducks quacking along a waterway. a grouse drumming or the sound of a turkey stretching its wings before flying off its roost in the earliest morning light. The musty smell of wet moss will overpower the sweet smell of summer wild flowers and blossoms. The sound of acorns thumping off of dead branches or hollow logs. A deer snort that stops me dead in my tracks, with weapon ready, listening for the next sound to discover its whereabouts.

 I tie on my favorite beetle imitation and cast to the brushy bank. Again and again I cast along the shoreline without a rise. With the cooler night time temps I figure the trout must have moved out into the open river, maybe to the opposite bank. I tie on a woolly bugger and make my way across river. With no hits on the bugger I tie on a #10 orange Humpy. I drop the Humpy upon a riffle created by a few surface top rocks in the shallow water. The Humpy waffles to the tail end without a take. After 2 more casts in the same area I let a long cast of 9’ leader and line out towards a huge creviced boulder. The Humpy drops a couple of feet from its rounded edges. I take up slack as the fly drifts slowly on the calmer water. A fish surfaces with a splash but I’m late getting the long length of line moving fast enough for a hook set and the fly flutters towards me. I cast to another area a few times before returning to the missed fish. This time he rises less furious and I’m ready with the long hook set. I feel the fish on the other end briefly. As he takes line behind an exposed boulder I throw my fly line up and over, downstream trying to avoid a snag. With that, the hook and Humpy flies free and I’m left fishless.
 I fish the bank down to the shallow choppy water. I than fish the river back to the creek mouth. The sky is turning darker and I can smell rain in the air. I reel in and head for camp.

 Rain water that gathered on cupped leaves, overnight, now fall in droplets as a slight breeze feathers the tree tops. I listen to them tap on thicker leaves and thin branches. I shake the wetness off the tent and than begin to dismantle the poles. Daddy Long-Legs sprint to other parts of the tent fabric. It’s strange how they refuse to take to the ground floor until the last moment of completing folding the tent. A few will get caught up among the folds only to be discovered later in a leg tangling pretzel shape.
 I somberly take down the canopy top and frame. My movements are slow as I don’t want to leave but the oncoming clouds look to present a shower of rain that will make a mess of my camping gear. I gather the rest of my stuff and carry them to the gravel area near my van. I return the most used items back into their original places inside my ’camp on wheels’. I place the canopy, tent, water jugs and cooler on the van floor for easy access to take them out when I get back home. A fine mist of rain sprinkles the windshield as I start the 318 engine and turn on the windshield wipers.

 I pull out an Arturo Curly Head cigar and lip wet the Candela tobacco that’s wrapped over the filler tobacco. The light green wrapper is more flavorful and smoother than the natural brown wrapped cigars. I take my time driving along the river watching for wildlife that may appear amonst the forest.

It wasn’t much of a ‘fish catching’ weekend but the solitude and nature of it all always fulfills my ‘Pennsylvania Wilds’ yearning!

_____________________________________~doubletaper

Black Hats on the River

Black Hats on the River


A light breeze brushes against bank side tree tops
Drops of rain water fall from their leaf tips
_dimpling the smooth water below
An ant falls among the droplets
A swirl!!!
1' and 6" of 7x tippet knotted to 9 foot of 5x leader
_along with well used fly line lifts off the water
The rod tip bends and in turn
_the shallow water churns
Another fish caught
_by dry fly experience

Water splashes behind
_as the new fly rod flexes rearward
Forward, the new fly line slaps the water
_in turn an olive woolly bugger follows
It plops shy of the bank
Two friends laugh and carry on
_fishing side by side
The inexperienced short strips line
A strike is felt, rod flexes
Forth fish comes to hand
He smiles

Evening falls along the peaceful waters
Smoke takes to air from beneath black hats
River water flows as friendship shows
all is good!

~doubletaper
                                donny's first trout on new fly rod!

another on an 'olive bugger'

one on a 'barking spider'

biggest on a 'black ant'

'black foam beetle' lover

brook trout and a good stogie

Bass on 'Glass'

Bass on ‘Glass’

8/19/10

I stand on the freshly mowed field, behind the log house, looking down and across the quiet pond. My right hand gripping the full-well shaped cork handle on my 8wt Wonderod, as I capture the moment.

 A slight breeze blows across the water surface and a kaleidoscope of light reflects off the rippled water from the evening sunshine. I see the leaves of a small red Maple turning in the wind on a small island to my right. Its leaves rustle displaying their maroon underside. Scott is already casting his spinning rod lures off the dock as his son is pitching a lure beneath an overhanging shade tree along the bank.
I start to have second thoughts about the fiberglass rod and having to cast light foam poppers in and against the wind.
‘I’m sure I’ll manage, maybe putting the wind behind me’ I think to myself.

 On the small dock I string my fly rod and anxious to fish I don’t check for line abrasions or knots on my own knotted tied leader. I tie on a Fas-Snap and attach a medium size green frog popper. It takes time to master the slow fiberglass rod action but soon I get a rhythm. In time my straight outreaching casts only veer off their mark by the passing breeze.
 Wanting to get away from the rippled water and cross-wind I head down the shoreline to work my way around the pond. Nearing an island, just off shore, I stand among the bank-side weeds and cast my popper towards the island. Within two shakes of the rod tip a fish slams my popper. I heave back and my fly rod flexes than straightens above me. My popper’s gone and after checking, my tippet broken at the knot. First mistake!
 I strip off a piece of 6lb tippet from the spool and knot this to the leader. Droplets of sweat run down my forehead from the heat as my sunglasses start to fog. I continue and manage to knot another Fas-Snap to the tippet. Again I cast towards my side of the island. After two gurgles I let the popper settle. With even, smooth strips, I start to swim it towards me, stopping occasionally. A surface splash and I set the hook as the fish beneath pulls away. The rod flexes again and I feel the fishes struggle, momentarily! The rod straightens, the line goes limp, and the popper and fish mysteriously disappear. I look at the end of my tippet and the curled end tells me that I didn’t ’seat’ the knot. Mistake #2.
 I’m practically talking to myself about how I should of know better. I’m anxious and excited having only a few hours to fish and wanting to move around the pond in hopes of finding a monster bass. I wipe the sweat off my brow and clean my bifocal polarized lenses. This time I consciously thread on another Fas-Snap and after wetting the knot, pull it tight. I attach another green frog popper and take a deep breath to relax my anxiousness and pardon my mistakes. I pull an Arturo Fuente Curly Head Deluxe out of my shirt pocket and light it with my turbo, windless lighter. The fresh natural tobacco draws smooth as I watch the smoke at the end of the long barrel diminish with the passing breeze, the aroma lingers.
 With the cigar clinched between my teeth I start a relaxed back-cast. False casting twice I watch the fly line lengthen with each forward thrust. On the last forward thrust I stop the rod and the frog popper loops and plops out onto fresh water. I notice that the breeze has lifted and my popper now lays upon the smooth surface. Two gurgles and I start the swimming action; it creates a small wake behind. Wham, in quickness a fish, from below, takes the popper and I’m ready. The leader and fly line tighten, this time no break-off. The fish darts from side to side as I reel the big pumpkinseed in. I lift him out of the water and over the weeds to my feet.

 I slowly work my way around the pond to where I have more back-casting room, away from the brush that was once behind me. I let go a long cast as I feel the ‘glass‘ rod flex forward. With the help of the breeze it glides out into deeper water. The splash of the popper sprinkles water around it and creates an outward swirl; I wait for the surface to lay undisturbed again. I strip the popper in with long smooth strokes and from out of know where the back of a bass rises above the surface and inhales the moving object. I whale back the rod and feel the glass rod tip pull towards the surface commotion. The rod arcs forward, into the middle, as the struggling fish fights for freedom. I start to reel until he tugs hard enough in the opposite direction. The responsive fiberglass rod dampens the quick thrusts by the fish. I keep good tension on the rod only letting him take line out sparingly when the rod flexes with too much force. After a struggle the largemouth comes to the bank and I raise him to the grass. I lift him up, with my hand, and he opens his large mouth. I unhook the green popper with my hemostats and, after a picture, toss him back into the water.

Standing, I pull the cigar from my lips and breathe in some warm fresh air. The skanky odor of pond water, from my hand, mixes with the cigar aroma.
“This isn’t trout fishing, that’s for sure!”
I clinch the cigar between my lips and teeth and continue casting the popper out catching one more bass before moving on.

 I walk along the grassy bank and cast a few feet out from the shoreline. The frog popper falls with a plop. Instantly a fish darts from submerged shoreline pond weed and rises quickly to the frog. I set the hook on the take and within seconds he leaps out of the water to throw the hook. I see the popper dangle from the side of his mouth before he reenters with a wicked splash. A quick struggle and I lift him to shore.

 The evening sun starts its slow descent towards the horizon as I continue to hook pond fish with my popper offerings. On the other side of the pond I switch to a white woolly bugger and try for crappies. Unable to find any I do hook into a couple of big ‘gills’ and a small bass.

 Continuing around the pond I try different color poppers and a few woolly buggers. I catch one bass on a brown bugger but fail to produce any perch or crappie from the pond. The green frog popper is still the main intimidator.

 The evening cools some as the bright yellow sun drops behind green leaf trees.

It doesn’t take long for an orange glow to radiate above the now shadowy tree line where the sun had just disappeared.

 Back at the day-tripper-van I put away my gear, the odor of pond water still present on my hands from the scaly fish I held earlier. I slide a Macanudo Robust Ascot out of its cellophane clear wrapper. The Robust tobacco is stronger than the Fuente cigar I smoked earlier but I find the pond odor is stronger yet, as my fingers lift the cigar to my lips. After lighting the short cigar I enter the van and start the small 6 cylinder engine. I look over to Scott and thank him for letting me tag along with him and his son.

 I hold the cigar between my teeth, in the corner of my mouth, as I back up and turn the steering wheel to exit up through the dirt drive. Smoke from the short barrel feathers its way through the crack of the opened window, the aroma lingers within the van.

 Another successful, relaxing and entertaining evening away from the rat race of uncertainties.

_______________~doubletaper

Spider Webs in the Mist

Spider Webs in the Misty Morn

I greet the dawn through dreary eyes and a cup of hot tea

My senses awaken upon inhaling the crisp morning air

My skin arouses with chills, joints ache without pills

All will be forgotten with the first cast of feather and hair

Fog lies upon the silent still water

It rises in many a more turbulent place

The birds chime in, it brings a grin

to my early morn stiff bearded face

The sun beams through a foggy thick haze

Just a glow without any distinct edge

Moisture drops from leafy tree tops

and dimples below the bank side ledge

The morning mist reveals exquisite webs

upon the grass and along the iron railed bridge

I take it all in, again I grin

as a bird of prey encircles a distant ridge

Somewhere in town the world goes round

The hustle and bustle the norm

But look for me here, in serenity and fishing gear

Such a peaceable morn

　____~doubletaper