This is how my journey of self discovery (one of many recently) started this week:
“The new seat for my custom motorcycle seat arrived today. I’m going to test ride it tomorrow,” I told my brother, realizing that its arrival Monday sort of made it a birthday gift to myself.
“Cool. How much did that cost?” asked Mark.
“Oh, about $400…”
“You mush like your tush…”
The conversation went on with justifications about spending that kind of money, talk about long rides that have been planned for some as-yet unset date.
I’m certainly not wealthy, but with a bit of scrimping and saving in other parts of my life, I can equip myself with motorcycle (or fly fishing) gear that increases my enjoyment. Good gear is worth it: not thinking about how my butt may start to go numb is priceless.
“I deserve good things, I am entitled to my share of happiness. I refuse to beat myself up. I am an attractive person. I am fun to be with.” Three out of four ain’t bad. Dig the sweater.
I’m tough on all my gear, but the big name waders I purchased almost five years ago only recently needed repair after hiking through brambles and blackberries, scrambling over boulders, only to be unceremoniously crumbled and thrown in the trunk until their next use or being unpacked and hopefully cleaned at home.
There’s also that one rod I use most, even when it’s not an exact match for my quarry, even when it’s a bit too long for the brush-lined banks of relatively small water. It’s the one that casts best. I don’t have to accommodate the rod, it fits me. Like that motorcycle seat, I don’t think about it, it just does its job. Also like that seat, my favorite wasn’t cheap. But it does everything that I ask of it, without me asking.
In some respects, I was a fly fishing snob in my formative fishing years, arguing that landing a 14-inch trout on my less-than-$100 rod was equivalent to a 21-inch fish on more expensive gear. Back then, I figured waving around a more expensive rod would scream “poser.” Perhaps I’m wiser now. Or, like that honey badger, I just don’t care.
Luckily, my wife’s been the most ardent support of my purchasing good stuff. I’ve just been a bit too miserly to listen. So when the bill comes, she can’t complain. She started it.
As alluded to in my last Friday post, the excellent fishing just over a week ago was often centered on a certain little red humpy. Accompanying the good fishing was good weather. I couldn’t have asked for any better; it was in the mid 80°s those four days. The following week the average daily highs climbed above 100°.
When it comes to fishing unfamiliar waters, I’m a big fan of hedging my bets. While specific locations and tactics will be obfuscated in conversations with just-met fly fisherman, and stops at local shops often require filtering out hyperbole, it’s usually fellow fly fishing club members that will usually — with a caveat that certain tidbits never be shared — give the most accurate information.
That’s what led me to Calaveras Big Trees State Park to check out Beaver Creek and the North Fork of the Stanislaus River.
I’ll get the North Fork of the Stan out of the way first. I fished it later in the day and did land a few fish. It’s not my favorite type of river. It’s certainly scenic, shadowed by groves of ponderosa and sugar pines, incense cedars, white firs, mountain dogwood and, of course, giant sequoia redwoods. It looks to offer a great opportunity for rafting and I probably should reserve final judgment until there’s a chance to visit when the water is lower. But it’ not the easiest stretch of water to fish as it tumbles through truck-size boulders that mean edging a few yards downstream might entail a half-mile hike just to get around those boulders.
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Missed hatch on Beaver Creek.
Beaver Creek, however, was a reminder of why I enjoy fly fishing smaller waters; they require a more personal involvement with nature. Though it took bushwhacking to move upstream, Beaver Creek offers the intimate style of water I favor, and that certainly made any difficult terrain less of a burden. My hope was to find the wild fish I had been told about, but if they were there, they weren’t as aggressive as the stocked rainbows. I was pleasantly surprised, however, by a wild brown that nailed the humpy only seconds after it landed near a likely seam.
I fished a few other less remarkable sections of the Stanislaus, revisited Herring Creek, and wet a line in some of the ol’ regular spots. It was a good few days. And when the humpy didn’t work, one of my “confidence” flies, a stimulator of nearly any color, did.
I’m glad I went exploring when I did; it’s likely that within a month some of these creeks will be a bit too skinny.
The bad news is that work this year dictates quick trips pretty much limited to the family cabin. The good news is that this allows for frequent trips that engender exploration.
Last week I decided that the two full days available for fishing would be dedicated to moving waters with familiar names but until now remained unfished. And no one told me it was humpy week. Red and yellow to be exact.
Road work meant the last five miles of my trip took half an hour. Luckily, a month ago I found a small section of the North Fork of the Tuolumne River not more than 20 minutes from the cabin, a convenient place to get the skunk off after a midafternoon arrival in the Sierra foothills. It’s not remote and often occupied, with a limited number of wild trout, but it’s a place that offers room to practice casting to specific seams and shelter.
Like much of the moving water in the Sierras, this section of the Tuolumne was already low. The early season spoiled me, so the fisherman in me was also initially disheartened to find two kids frolicking in the main pool. As a dad, I appreciated that these kids were having a good time outdoors. However, despite the splashing and noise, a trout would periodically and enticingly slash at the surface.
Though a short drive, I hate wasting an opportunity to fool a fish with a dry/dropper combination. A red humpy and a self-tied small, go-to bead-head nymph.
It took a few casts to warm up.
Then the fish warmed up to my presentation.
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Darn fish wouldn't stay in focus. (But was caught near the rock, in focus, in the background.)
So it went for a few hours. The humpy dried off many times after being battered and half swallowed. These fish were hungry and made me look good.
That’d be the theme this trip, and though I didn’t find as many wild trout as hoped, I did well enough to consider it time well spent.
The next three days I’d fish four unfamiliar waters, landing fish from each, often amid relative solitude (we’ll get to that next week). When not alone, I was lucky enough to enjoy conversation with fishermen more knowledge about the area than I, fly fishermen who were happy to offer friendly advice and recommend additional venues. One gentleman, with a long history of fishing the foothills, related bit of history that suggests in high-water years there’s a very real possibility of brook trout being washed out of a reservoir into a nearby steam.
Yes, it was time very well spent.
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Big-tailed rainbow...surprising for a stocked fish.
Hopefully, today will be a second day of exploration of waters somewhere on the map below. The best outcome will include fishable water, wild fish and solitude.
It turns the tables a bit when it’s the kids introducing parents to new places and experiences and revisiting the familiar after three decades is icing on the cake, though there’s bound to be disagreement in our personal memories.
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Mom and Dad at the cabin, for their first visit.
But easy agreement was found in the beauty of the scenery and shared remembrances during a long drive up and over Tioga Pass, along the shores of Mono Lake, before a return over Sonora Pass.
The parents arrived at the cabin late that Sunday afternoon, and after running an errand that took entirely too long for Dad, dinner was enjoyed and we settled in for the evening. Thankfully, the storm that had dumped snow on the passes had dissipated the day before and the warmth of the sunshine had cleared the roads.
Mom, Dad and I leisurely left Twain Harte with a route in mind but absent any planned stops or timetable. The hillsides leaned more toward gold, but were freckled by islands of still-green grass.
I’ve driven this road many mornings, but saw things a bit differently today since I wasn’t preoccupied with wetting my fly line. Miles rolled by, lubricated by conversation. Soon it was time for a stop to stretch our legs. Though there aren’t many hatcheries that will, in my mind, match the magnificence of the historic Mt. Whitney Fish Hatchery visited in my youth, there was something familiar about walking around the Moccasin Creek Hatchery with the folks.
After the excitement of gaining 1,500 feet in elevation over the two miles of the “new” Old Priest Grade, it was all new territory for Mom and Dad as we wound through Big Oak Flat, Groveland, and past Buck Meadows. Highway 120 took us from 2,838 feet at Big Oak Flat to Yosemite National Park’s Big Oak Flat Entrance Station at 4,900 feet. Dad was impressed by the tidiness of the towns and the number of old buildings alongside the roadway, many of which are still in use.
If it wasn’t enough to have fantastic weather, traffic was light. By mid morning we arrived at the entrance station, where the purchase of an annual pass got us across the park border. Words in many foreign languages hung in the cool air, reminding me of the many nature blessings that aren’t more than a day’s drive from home that attract visitors from around the world.
I’ve always throught that the changes in vegetation and terrain grow more dramatic once inside the formal boundaries of Yosemite. Heavy forest yielded to granite, which only seems to yield to water in the form of glaciers, ice and liquid. We pushed on to Olmsted Point, taking obligatory photos, then on to Tenaya Lake. Availing ourselves of the facilities near the lake, I made a mental note that I need to spend more time exploring Tenaya Lake and its surroundings.
There’s a drama that comes with finally emerging from the forest to be presented with the dramatic vista of Tuolumne Meadows, then dropping into the meadow itself. This time I was taken aback by the dramatic change in its appearance compared with that of last spring, when my brother, son and I were on our way to a challenging life-affirming hike to the top of nearby Lembert Dome. Last year the meadows were covered with water. This year, the grass was already the gray-brown of late August.
I had to explain to Dad that the Tuolumne Meadows campground wasn’t open yet when he asked why I was parking alongside the highway. He’d never been here so early in the season. (The campground would open two weeks later, rather early.) Though last June there was snow on the ground and big puddles filled with mosquito larvae, there was nothing of the sort this last week of May. A stroll toward the entrance was accompanied by a bit of debate about the differences between today’s visit and our memories of camping trips more than two decades ago. Regardless of the differences of opinion and any discrepancy in our memories, there was more than enough that was still the same to foster a feeling of familiarity.
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Mom and Dad’s triumphant return after 30-some years.
My worries about the water were confirmed during this walk through the campground when I stopped near the same spot from which I took a photo of Lembert Dome in 2011. Last year, there was no discernable difference between the channels of the Tuolumne River and the river itself, and the water was within two feet of the bottom of the Tuolumne Meadows (Hwy. 120) Bridge. This year, the channel nearest the campground was no more than a foot deep, and the river was barely touching the bridge abutments.
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The three of us at Leavitt Falls Overlook.
The reminiscing was further fueled by the sheer rock walls along the descent from Tioga Pass to Lee Vining. The thought of dropping in at Bodie Mike’s for a barbecue lunch was derailed by Dad’s sudden proposition of stopping at the Tioga Gas Mart — that he didn’t recall seeing before — to grab lunch at the Whoa Nellie Deli. A word of warning: Be careful what you order. It’s all big at Whoa Nellie. The Cowboy Steak Sandwich is not so much as sandwich as it is a steak slapped on a roll.
The easy drive north on Hwy. 395 from Lee Vining was a welcome change after such a big lunch. By the time we arrived to the intersection of Hwys. 395 and 108, the urge to nap had passed. A good thing considering the hairpin curves that would take us from 6,765 feet to 9,623 feet at Sonora Pass. Before our main ascent, the Leavitt Falls overlook offered a last opportunity to stretch our legs before the long trip over the pass. The reduced volume of water coming over the falls was another reminder that it’s going to be a dry year in the Sierra Nevada. We posed for photos, then began the long climb.
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Getting a roadside education at Sonora Pass.
This was undiscovered country for the parents, who never had a reason to travel this road. To my eye, Hwy. 108 over Sonora Pass offers much more dramatic transitions. The road rises faster and the changes in terrain and vegetation follow suit. Surprised to find it open, we stopped at the Donnell Reservoir scenic overlook, with a sweeping over the Stanislaus River canyon and the Central Valley. The road from there is bit less remarkable, winding through heavy forest and passing towns that only seem to be wide spots in road.
It was a long but worthwhile day; one that both revived and created memories.
The dogwoods’ stark white blooms peeked out from behind pines as unfamiliar water teased with promise. A slight breeze carried mayflies upstream. Spring was winding its way higher and higher up the Sierra Nevada range, bringing renewal. It arrived with a beautiful recklessness.
Wildflowers popped up randomly, seeking purchase in the cracks of granite boulders. The river, though somewhat tamed by a mild winter, flowed high with snowmelt. If the warmth of the day suggested that this trout season would peak early, it was the mayflies that served notice that the spring runoff had already begun to recede.
Spring Runoff
A decision to devote this year to exploration of the many streams and rivers surrounding The Cabin led me to this upper stretch of the Tuolumne River; a widely known section, until now, unvisited. Upstream, pocket water was edged by sedges, willows and horsetails, while downstream plunge pools hugged outcroppings of granite. It’s just shy of a month since the start of the season yet it was only my eyes that scanned the water that morning for any hint of fish.
It would be disingenuous to suggest that all of the time spent and distance traveled to this and similar waters is devoted to casting practice, or perfecting my presentation. It’s the fish that I’m after. Thus far this season, however, I’ve fallen under the spell of ‘the turn.’ Fly fishermen more commonly will speak fervently about ‘the take,’ and it can be exciting, but for me it’s the anticipation that builds with that telltale flash, or if sight fishing, the shift of an eye or opening of the mouth that comes before the strike or refusal. It’s the amount of this turn, lack thereof, or ultimately the take that offers the most accurate appraisal of a fly’s presentation.
It was upstream that I half kneeled behind a boulder, tossing more than casting a dry/dropper combination into a likely pocket. Almost imperceptibly the dry fly, a yellow humpy this time, skipped a beat and the hook was set. The reward was eight inches of a brilliantly painted wild rainbow trout. The fish had struck a small, size 18 red-butt Zebra midge I tied on a whim last fall, not knowing or caring if it was an actual pattern. After a quick look at the little fish, I slipped it back into the water.
My casting went unanswered for a while and I headed downstream, purposely ignoring the pool just below where I had parked the car. With the new trout season came the stocking of fish, and it really wasn’t speculation to think they’d still be there later.
It was more bushwhacking than fishing on the way downstream. Any fish that might have been there remained unseen. The same gradient that allowed for a stairway of likely pools also funneled this part of the river into a canyon. With the passing of years I have come to understand a need to balance the distance traveled in the search for fish with the consideration that an equivalent distance must be retraced to my starting point. I turned around when venturing further downstream meant following a trail too far away from the water. Less attractive was the slippery bed of pine needles and the leaves of California black oaks.
On a piece of lichen-dotted granite — not a boulder, more of an exposed part of the mountain — I sat, watched and listened. Thought not silent, there was peace in the sounds of the river washing over rocks, the breeze rocking the tip tops of the trees and chirping birds unmindful of my presence. Heading upstream meant hiking uphill and arriving at the pool previously disregarded, my excuse was taking time to watch the water while the truth was I needed to catch my breath.
This was one of those long, wide pools that suggest fish and are often quickly fished out. Grabbing my attention on the opposite bank, however, was what looked to be the tip top of a pine tree, out of which sprung gnarled branches extending into the water and above its surface. It was prime shelter just off the fastest seam. Not fishing means not catching, but in my few short years of fly fishing I’ve learned from my quarry to maximize reward with efficiency, so I waited and watched. First it was only a nose prodding the water’s surface inches away from the branch, then a small splash. A fish finally crashed through the surface. Though its prey was unseen, I tied on a black-bodied caddis and stripped line for a cast.
A simple quartering upstream cast put my flies just out of sight of the fish but in a current that would pull them just past the ripples of another rise form. The first look at the dry fly was only a tentative bump. Readjusting and allowing my back cast to go high over the willows behind me, I would cast a few more times before appetite overwhelmed caution, and a decent rainbow came to the net.
When appetite overcomes caution...
This was the game played over the next hour or so. I’d periodically examine my knots and flies, taking my time and only casting again when the trout’s feeding fell back into a natural rhythm. Half a dozen more fish were fooled and more than a few of those netted.
I’m not a great caster, and often label my casting skill as ‘simply adequate.’ Normally a difficult-to-reach fish would be ignored. That wouldn’t be the case today.
What caught my attention was a couple of regular rises, slightly downstream and on the other side of the tree, underneath a branch extending about three feet above the surface. The tree top seemed to end somewhere below that branch, allowing for another couple of feet of clear water before a boulder diverted the river back into the main part of the pool. In hindsight it’s hard to tell why I tried the cast, though in the moment there wasn’t much thinking involved, only action. The fly fell right where intended and travelled no more than six inches before it was inhaled.
This was one of those rare moments, and a sense of wonderment washed over me. A decent rainbow trout and I exchanged looks. I released it, but it lingered between my boots before slowly disappearing upstream. More casts were made, most on target. Hook sets were missed, but some connected and I would be eyeball-to-eyeball with three more fish.
There was an unusual contentedness within when I left about noon, happy to have found fish, and happy they were willing.
Twas an imployment for his idle time, which was not idly spent; for angling was after tedious study, a rest to his mind, a cheerer of his spirits, a divertion of sadness, a calmer of unquiet thoughts, a Moderator of passions, a procurer of contentedness, and that it begot habits of peace and patience in those that professed and practice’d it.”
— Izaac Walton, The Complete Angler, or Contemplative Man’s Recreation: Being a Discourse on Rivers, Fish-Ponds, Fish and Fishing (1653, 8th ed.)
When I decided to step into the light and embrace fly fishing a few years ago, certain waters came to my attention. Many were governed by regulations limiting fishing to un-baited, single-hook, artificial lures. Others were specifically deemed zero-limit barbless hook fisheries. It was exciting.
A relatively short section of a certain Sierra Nevada creek was particularly alluring. Tales abounded of big browns and hefty rainbows. Most important to a novice fly fisher, only a few fly-eating trees follow its course. All this was gleaned from photos.
Then I read the associated article, and shuddered. It took only one word, an adjective often casually thrown around by old timers, to stop me in my tracks: ‘technical.’ I immediately visualized streamside judges waving numbers in the air, giving low-digit scores to my casting.
My discouragement mounted as the research piled up. There was no consolation to be found in other articles, books or discussions with more experienced fly fishermen. Much of the season this creek requires accurate sight casting, with presentation made difficult by heavy weeds that limited the ‘natural’ drift of your fly. In a nutshell, I was told, it was a creek only to be fished by those who had paid their dues.
But there I was, still in my first year of fly fishing, standing on its banks. I was asked by a more seasoned fly fishing club member to join him on this creek. He was one of the guys who had taken me under his wing, and it seemed to me that a refusal of the invite would have been rude at the very least, and would call into question my ability to absorb the knowledge he had thus far imparted.
The creek wasn’t as wide or as deep and I had envisioned. Most places one could cross in three or four strides without the water rising much above the knees. The water clarity fit that timeworn description ‘gin clear.’ We’d set out for his favorite spot, and I was upstream a few yards.
On the trail we had discussed flies. He told me he’d be using dries but that I’d be fine with a dry-dropper combination and lowering his voice, added that a lot of guys might have a fancier cast, but this fishery often rewarded the spirit and stick-to-itiveness of an angler, not the casting. Fish don’t judge casting.
It wasn’t until I landed that first brilliant rainbow that my fear fell away. Sure, it took more than a few casts to find the lane, but the abundance of trout ensured that any adequate presentation wouldn’t be ignored.
That first rainbow that rewarded this fly fisherman with a strong fight and great colors.
In the end, both my dry fly and nymph elicited strikes. I had taken on this Creek of Fear and won. Recently, one guide went so far as to say this creek is a good place for novices, a place that demands hard work but quickly rewards. I’ve since fished this creek half a dozen times. I netted nice brown and rainbow trout each time, but only after putting in the work, even if just sitting, watching and learning the day’s lesson before the first cast.
I’m still a bit intimidated when good casting or technical prowess is mentioned as necessary to success in any fishery. But perhaps I am not as unaccomplished ( [uhn-uh–kom-plisht] adj 1. not accomplished, incomplete; 2. certain angler of the Pacific Northwest*.) as I think, though there will be lot of learning before I too can “snicker at the new guys.”
* Kirk’s Kickstarter campaign is funded! He and Olive must feel so accomplished! Now the real work begins. To help Kirk feel less unaccomplished, join in the Kickstarter campaign that could launch his book character Olive, the Woolly Bugger and friends into the digital world with an iPad app. There’s only three days left. (In full disclosure, I’ve contributed in the hope of getting my complimentary copy of the app, so I’d also appreciate any contribution that would get me something out of this deal.)
The following is a guest post available to all outdoor bloggers who have an interest in the Pebble Mine/Bristol Bay issue. Please feel free to you use it on your blog.
Photo by B.O'Keefe
Starting Monday, April 16, more than 30 sportsmen from around the country are traveling to the nation’s capitol to let their elected officials and the president know that protecting Bristol Bay is a top priority for hunters and anglers.
This is an important week to show the folks who have the power to protect Bristol Bay that sportsmen are in this fight. We’ve got folks from Alaska, Montana, Michigan, Colorado, New Mexico, Pennsylvania, Nevada, Texas, Wisconsin, Washington, North Carolina, California, Missouri, New York, and Virginia representing this great country and the millions of people who want Bristol Bay to be protected and left just like it is today–pristine and productive.
A recent report by the Congressional Sportsmen’s Foundation shows that there are 34 million hunters and anglers in the U.S., and we’re a powerful constituency. Every year, we pump $76 billion into the economy in pursuit of our passion, through our spending on gear, licenses, gas, lodging, meals and more. All of that spending and activity directly supports 1.6 million jobs in this country.
We are also an influential group because 80 percent of sportsmen are likely voters – much higher than the national average. And, we also contribute the most money of any group toward government wildlife conservation programs. So, hopefully if we care about an issue and show our support, the decision makers will listen to what we have to say.
In just a few weeks, the EPA will be releasing a draft of its Bristol Bay Watershed Assessment. This huge scientific assessment will likely guide future decisions about large-scale mining and other industrial development in the Bristol Bay region. If they find that disposal of waste from the mine would adversely harm the surrounding clean waters or natural resources, the EPA can deny or place restrictions on a required dredge and fill permit. If warranted, we hope the Obama Administration would take that step to protect Bristol Bay.
You can support the fight for one of planet Earth’s finest and most productive fishing and hunting destinations by taking action today. Fill out this simple form that will send a letter to the President and your members of Congress asking them to protect Bristol Bay. Let’s carry our sportsmen into D.C. with a lot of momentum.
A time comes in every fly fisherman’s career when it becomes clear that he (or she) has too much gear.
An outsider will recognize this long before the fly fisherman, but it seems that at some point, the vast majority of fly fisherman will eventually talk about simplifying. This may mean using a lanyard instead of a vest, carrying a single fly box instead of three, or taking up tenkara, which itself requires the purchase of more gear.
There’s an irony to the oft-told story of the boy who started fishing with cane rod, then grew into the fly fisherman who owns a small-brook rod, a small-river rod, a medium-river rod, a large-river rod, single- and double-handed salmon/steelhead rods, a stillwater rod and maybe a saltwater rod. And a few spare rods just in case. Each rod, of course, needs a matching reel. While there is legitimate need for a range of rods, this same fly fisherman will fondly recall the remarkable enjoyment, and simplicity, of chasing bluegill, bass, trout or some other fish with that cane rod of their childhood.
The first stage entails learning to cast with a rod that was passed down as a gift or was simply inexpensive enough to warrant an attempt at fly fishing. The first fish caught on this rod will likely be remembered forever. A fly box — probably a small, free one from the fly shop — and forceps fit into any available pocket. A broken branch serves as a wading staff.
Stage two entails replacement of that first rod and reel with counterparts that are shiny and new, both of which are more of a personal choice, and not a choice necessarily predicated on budget. Then there’s the vest; two, three or five more fly boxes and the flies to fill them; a decent mesh net; a wading staff; and maybe waders and felt-sole wading boots.
It all peaks in the third stage. A preference for a specific brand means new rods, new reels (with back ups for both) and new lines for every type of water fished or species chased. The vest may be replaced with a chest or sling pack. A rubber net is a must have, as is a lightweight, high-strength composite alloy collapsible wading staff. New rubber-soled wading boots include carbide cleats. A multitude of flies are purchased or tied, and if tied, enough materials to last three lifetimes must be bought.
The stage of simplification. It’s not so much about catching fish anymore, it’s the act — the gear is secondary. Maybe an attempt to recapture the pure joy of that first fly rod-caught fish, or perhaps avoiding hauling so much stuff around the river. Perhaps the rod is one built at home…not perfect but nice looking enough, and mated to a reel chosen for no other reason than it’s a favorite. The single fly box may not be filled, but it has every fly that’ll be needed.
If the level of a fly fisherman is measured by his gear, I’m still an amateur. Coming into the hobby later in life hasn’t afforded me the years that many spend accumulating equipment.
I did, however, purchase a new net at the club auction this week, for many reasons. Sure, it’s lighter than my current net and more “appropriately sized” for the trout I land. Crafted by a club member who’s also a skilled woodworker (so, made in America), it’s one of a limited set with the club logo (in enamel and metal) worked into the handle, and my winning bid will go into the pool of money the club donates to many conservation organizations.
Fly fishing is not stuff, it’s what you do. (And it really shouldn’t matter what you use to do it.)
I’m in the doldrums…taxes need to be done, it’s another four weeks before the Trout Opener, the cold, rainy November weather we didn’t get in November is here now…and seems to be hanging on in Vermont while Hendricksons are hatching early in the East. The anticipation of our Opener usually brings about a focus, but the gear’s long been sorted, flies tied, new reel set up…with little to do but wait, my attention span seems pretty short these days.
I can’t resist and The Wife chuckles knowing that it’s never going to be in the budget, but I would gladly own a vehicle for every day of the week; and two for Sundays…as long as I had the garage space. I can’t buy but can still look, and anyone my age as young as I might love their next fishing vehicles to be one of these recent concepts from Jeep.
The Jeep J-12 Concept…a knock off of the always macho J-20…
The FC concept is as a tribute to the unique Jeep Forward Control that was sold from 1956 and 1965.
You could, however, get your mitts on this oldie but goodie…I remember the first one I saw, in Tuolumne Meadows I believe, in green.
A 1970 Jeep Jeepster Commander…with a special and patriotic Hurst package…
On stopping a damn dam: Could it be that all those Californians that long-ago brought a housing boom to Washington State brought more than their luggage? We in the not-anymore-so Golden State are too familiar with the fight over water and the damming of rivers, and now Kirk Werner of UnaccomplishedAngler.com is asking for help…and we should give it. A movement is afoot to stop in the preliminary permitting process a small hydroelectric dam proposed for an upper section of Washington’s Skykomish River. I’ve not fished the Sky, but have hopes that as the years wear on that I might get to know it and other Washington rivers in my pursuit of a native westslope cutthroat.
…And you can’t help but like the little guy, but maybe I pushed my luck actually following through with the threat that I’d drop by to get his signature on a set of “Olive the Woolly Bugger” books…but Kirk seem more than willing to sign copies of his books without you hovering over him if you make a Kickstarter pledge that could launch an Olive iPad app…a good idea for fly fishing fathers who figure they could receive the wife’s approval to get more new gear if only they could only pass their current gear down to their kids. I don’t need the books but I’m keen on something that might keep me entertained in the off season interest kids in the hobby.
I lied, so forget what I wrote. I will buy some new gear at the club auction next week, if I can fend off other bidders. A club member (and fantastic woodworker) donated some nice handmade nets big enough for optimism but more in keeping with the size of fish I land. I’m guessing I’m in for some combat bidding.
fishing for words 