fishing for words

Since my cousin was kind enough to give advance warning — and once and a while turns a funny phrase or two — we’ll give his new The Wanderings of GRYWHL blog a plug from the Konoske side of the family aisle.

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There’s no doubt that Bill’s accounts of his and his wife’s wanderings down to and in the lower 48 from the “confined space” unabashed luxury of a thirty nine foot and eleven inch Itasca motor home will give rise to a bit of envy among we-who-still-must-earn-a-living.

Then, in only his second post, Bill shamelessly drives the stake a bit deeper…

For those of you that are wondering where we’re ultimately moving to, or whether we’re returning to Alaska, we’ve finally reached the point where we’re OK with saying that we just don’t know. Over the years, we’ve changed our minds so many times (I believe the official estimate was 463 at last count) that I think we’ve given friends and family mental whiplash, so we’re finally just saying that as soon as we know, you will too.

Wish we all could be that “OK.”

Thankfully, Bill’s blog will be countered with more truthful accounts complemented with alternative tales of their aimless trek across the North American continent by his wife’s four-month-old blog: Birding and Other Chatter.

See you in the blogsphere.

There truly is no place like a cold tailwater for hiding from the heat.

A little trout fishery near the cabin offered a (literally) cool escape from the scorcher that hit the Saturday of Labor Day weekend ’08. Willing rainbows and brookies provided the entertainment. They even taught my fly-fishing-student-for-the-day a thing or two ‘bout fly fishing.

Credit for the teaching goes to the trout ‘cause though certainly cheaper that any guide around, limited knowledge and an inclination to flog the water with my own line severely handicapped any willingness to offer long or detailed instruction.

Our arrival streamside fell towards the later part of the early morning, limiting our initial wade-in an oft-ignored but fun and fish-filled run. Narrow and fast, it’s a great classroom for learning the drift-and-lob nymphing technique. Being deeper there’s no sight fishing here and it offers a lesson in keeping they eye on the indicator. Plenty of bank, a few boulders and a nice tailout make for unpredictable takes.

Take those trout did. No more than a dozen drifts and the first lesson of the day was on. We both were students that day. Happy to report, Richard received an almost nonstop tutorial in hooking and landing trout and a nearly unhealthy amount of schooling in LDR¹. My lesson plan for the day seemed to center around the ease with which trout can throw a size 22 hook.

Had hoped to offer a lecture and example of fishing dry flies but insect hatches apparently get a pass for the last long weekend of summer.

But the day went well. We had the creek to ourselves from mid-morn on, the heat was kept at bay and the fish came out to play.

Don’t know if Richard found that “Fly-fishing is the sweetest of addictions.”² or perhaps that “The truth is fly fishing is folly; useless, unreasonable, irrational and without purpose.”³ Mabye a little bit of both.

As for me, I’ll follow the trout in the dog days of summer.

Trout live where you don’t need A/C.

 

My wife takes almost inordinate joy in bamboozling me — a joy that comes easy thanks to my trusting and unassuming nature. At least that’s how I choose to spin it.

Reaching a forty-fifth birthday…as I did yesterday…apparently does not instantly instill one with cynicism or suspicion. And those qualities don’t seem to be inherent in my makeup.

In my youth I incessantly fell for pranks. Years later I still can’t help a furtive glance when nearly anyone asks “What’s that?”, pointing behind me and planning to promptly steal the last bite of my chocolate decadence torte.

So when the wife commented that we’d have a crowd in the house for my birthday dinner I’m sure that inside she quietly sniggered at my quizzical look. I knew that it would be us and maybe only one of the three kids.

She probably let a chuckle slip as she loaded the oven with eight potatoes for a table I thought would host only four of us. After the fact it was revealed that she also repressed undue amusement when my sister called the house and wished me a happy birthday.

The laughter was loosed after I opened the front door about thirty minutes later to find my sister’s family personally delivering birthday wishes along with a card and balloons. I may not bait fish anymore, but I fell for this deception hook, line and sinker.

Guess I’ve grown a bit more relaxed in my advancing age or perhaps I now accept the idea that my naïveté can bring hours of amusement to those around me. So be it.

Those bacon-wrapped steaks still tasted great.

Amazing what open eyes can see. Assuming the brain can connect the dots.

Planning for trout chasing next weekend gets all eight cylinders firing when in comes to research. Water levels are low. Temps may be high. And little good can come of catching and releasing already stressed out wild fish.

So the interweb gets tickled for any insight into Sierra West Slope possibilities. A search gives up an old Mapquest query left behind by an unknown soul. Tantalized by the possibility it might pinpoint good trout water near my Sierra foothills permanent base of operation, a click is made.

I recognize the location. Not near any stream that I know of. But I’ve driven past this place four or five or six dozen times over the last few years, not knowing that Galvan Fly Reels quietly cranked out¹ a modest line of respected fly reels.

Here’s to hoping they offer a factory tour that ends with free samples…

In the words of my father, I “made out like a bandit” this weekend. And had a spot of luck too.

It began Friday when the new hard drive for our Series 3 Tivo arrived. The old hard drive decided to take a permanent vacation, presenting the dilemma of either purchasing a new Tivo, meaning we’d loose the lifetime subscription that has paid for itself a few times over, or trying to drop in a new hard drive. Either way, it would cost about the same. The hard drive install was quick and easy, and after running through the guided set up our resurrected Tivo was running smoothly with our lifetime subscription still intact.

Saturday afternoon the wife and I visited a fellow fly fisherman and his wife with the express purpose of combing though some fly tying materials. Comb through we did. About an hour and a half later I was putting a grocery bag in my car full of materials, including seven dozen spools of thread of all sorts of colors and hues. All that and a dinner date with my wife.

Sunday’s event was courtesy Honda. As a participant of an online Honda Owners Panel (which conducts surveys about once a month) I was awarded two pass to the IndyCar race at Infineon Raceway. Christopher and I arrived about ten that morning to enjoy a continental breakfast in the Honda tent, which was set up at turn two. (An uphill right-hand sweeper.) After walking around the various exhibits and watching the Historic Gran Prix cars head out to the track for warm up, we headed back to the tent for a great rib lunch. Lunch gave way to a visit by the Ryan Hunter-Reay (driving the ethanol-sponsored Rahal/Letterman Racing #17), then a tour of the garage area. Though I wouldn’t pay for the privilege, it was fun seeing the race in person. Helio Castroneves (Team Penske #3) won, with Ryan Hunter-Reay finishing 18th. Gotta love free stuff.

I’ll be the guy looking for more freebies…