Category Archives: Tongue ‘n Cheek
Oh Shit!!!!!!!
I’ve forgotten wading boots, reels, flies and most of the time, my camera. This is the topper. It’s also a reminder of how far Rich Merleno would go to get you on the water.
My “stuff” was piled on my front porch steps waiting to be put into the Jeep. Sam just arrived and was making room for it and began loading as I mulled over whether or not I had everything I’d need for this long anticipated trip to Vermont’s Green Mountain country to fish the fabled Batton Kill. Nope, I had everything I would need and then some. Still I couldn’t get rid of that feeling as we drove toward the post office to mail a couple of bills.
Ahaa! I finally figured out what I had left behind – sunglasses. Sure enough, there sitting on the rail of the front porch were my custom made polarized sunglasses. Good, we were off again.
Maybe I was feeling guilty for leaving Seamus behind on this trip; he certainly gave me his most pathetic “don’t leave me dad” look as I tried to explain he couldn’t come and why; but in true Brittany fashion he put a guilt trip on me I couldn’t shake. By the time we were on I-94 heading toward the Blue Water Bridge, my mind was totally on what I expected to find on the Batton Kill.
Somewhere along highway 402, my eyes got as big as silver dollars as I sat straight up and realized I had forgotten, of all things, my vest.
At first I rationalized it wasn’t that important, but soon got that sick feeling as my heart competed with breakfast for room in m stomach. Fishing without the “stuff” in your vest is like a jockey sitting on a horse without a saddle or bridal. He’s in the race, but he’s not going to have a very good time. By now I was searching my mind for a solution to this disaster and began to prioritize what I actually needed and what was just dead weight in the bulky thing. I figured I could get along with just a couple of spools of tippet, some floatant and I could buy flies at the local fly shop; then I realized that the west was a compilation of all of my fly fishing experiences and the end sum of me. It contained everything I ever used or wanted to use as I had gotten into one situation or another where the query was presenting a dilemma that had to be overcome. In short, I was screwed.
As I began to total up the severe dent replacing the vest and contents would put in my budget for the trip, Sam –after he stopped laughing and reminded me of how unmerciful I’d be if he was the one that committed this stupid foux paux – suggested we look into having the vest sent to us by overnight mail. Naturally, not being my idea I scoffed. But soon I thought it might work if we could provide a destination address. Then it hit me. There is an Orvis shop in Manchester, why not check if the Orvis shop in Royal Oak would send it out with their evening mail to their head store in Manchester.
Rich Merleno is the manager of the Royal Oak store and he and I have developed a good relationship over the past couple of years (partly from me spending most of my retirement money on “sale” items in the store) or so I hoped. When I called the store, Rich answered, and I’m sure, judging from the laughter on the other end of the line as well as the laughter coming from the background when he repeated my dilemma, I at least had his attention. To make a long story short, he immediately offered to help and once my daughter brought the vest to the store, he sent it out with the evening mail. (My daughter is being treated for severe side pain due to uncontrollable laughter at “Dad” having made this goof and not her husband Sam),
With that settled, I became easy again as we drive through Canada, down Up State New York and finally into Vermont. Seeing the natural wonders like Niagara Falls, the Hudson River and the Erie Canal – remembering my history lessons these things were so much a part of – I relaxed as I shut my eyes reliving the old movies about the settling of the country when New York was the frontier. Once across the New York / Vermont border, the road seemed to wind more and the countryside became greener. The Green Mountains in the background brought to mind Ethan Allen and the Green Mountain Boys and later the first stories I’d read about fly fishing and the rivers these mountains held.
We had arrived and tomorrow the others would arrive and I hoped my vest would arrive too. What’s in a vest? Well I guess more than I ever thought.
TD
Category Archives: Tongue ‘n Cheek
Fish Car
“Old Blue” or “Babe the Blue Truck” is the closest thing I’ve ever had that could qualify as a fish car. It’s gone now, and I miss it. It was a 1998 Dodge ram 150, v-8 that mostly worked. By that I mean, it ran, but not all of its features worked, like the cruise control or back-up lights. But it’s was a good truck and got me where I wanted to go and had plenty of power if I feel the need to use it. (I don’t have the same affinity for speed I once did).
I don’t know why guys like pickups. Most who own one never use the bed for hauling anything more than “stuff” they could fit in a big trunk. Most have covers on them that make reaching to spots behind the cab a pain and they get terrible mileage compared to other types of vehicles. Of course there are small pickups, but what’s the use in having a small truck? It’s a guy thing.
I never gave much thought to a “fish car” until I saw a movie trailer about the movie “Anatomy of a Murder” written by John Volker, aka Robert Traver. Volker, of course, was a Michigan Supreme Court Justice who happened to be a fly fisherman. (You could argue it was the other way around.) He lived in the Upper Peninsula and wrote extensively about fly fishing for brook trout on his beloved Frenchman’s Pond. In the trailer, which was shown at a Michigan Fly Fishing Club meeting by a friend of Volker who fished with him, the focus was on Volker and his dogged passion for fishing – fly fishing – for brookies on Frenchman’s Pond to be more specific.
It was circa 1950’s and Volker’s “fish car” was a Jeep station wagon type model that you don’t see around anymore. It certainly wasn’t like my Grand Cherokee. This car was a monster, and in its belly was an entire sporting goods store. Volker kept everything he needed to satisfy every whim depending on what the occasion called for: He had camping gear, cooking utensils, rods, reels and everything that goes with them; folding chairs and table, and of course a tin cup to sip bourbon while eating fresh caught and fried brook trout from Frenchman’s Pond.
After viewing the trailer and listening to the speaker, I couldn’t stop thinking about that car. Here was a man who could have gone anywhere in the world to fish, but chose to stay close to home and fish the beaver ponds and streams of the Upper Peninsula … more times than not, ending up at “Frenchman’s Pond” and doing it in all the splendor and comfort of an Orvis endorsed outfitter. I was hooked on the concept of a “fish car” and realized others had adopted the notion too.
My friend Bob Facca, a local chiropractor who puts me back together when I get stupid and try to be 25 again, has a “fish and grouse” car he outfits when the season’s and his busy schedule allow. Being a chiropractor, he’s organized and aligns everything in its proper place (no pun intended). To make a long story short, I decided to make “Old Blue” my “fish car”.
Keeping in the Volker tradition, I think I could rummage around behind the seat, under the seat and in various pockets and come up with most anything I need to go fishing. Not being a chiropractor, it just takes me a little longer to find what I’m looking for. During grouse season “Old Blue” becomes the “grouse car” with Seamus riding shotgun. (Actually Seamus rides shotgun all year-long, it’s just that his status is elevated during grouse season and he knows it.)
As I said, “Old Blue” is gone now and the Cherokee is the replacement. One Sunday as I hit the two tracks through the Jordan Valley, discovering new beaver impoundment that will require further investigation, I kept going over the inventory of what I stocked the Cherokee with. I knew I hadn’t transferred everything but had enough to get me through the weekend’s fishing requirements. Finally reaching the spot I scoped out last fall, I strung my rod, put on my waders and reached for my vest……ooops!
Shaking my head in disgust it dawned on me I was never without a fly pattern or two. After digging the barb out of the bill of my ball cap, I tied the stone pattern on the tippet and headed to the water’s edge. The brookies must have been waiting for a meal all day because that size 12 stone produced enough action to make me forget about my oversight until I hung it up on a branch and snapped the tippet.
I would never have been in that predicament if I had “Old Blue”. Now if only the price of gas would have dropped to a buck a gallon, I could afford to replace it.
TD
Category Archives: Tongue ‘n Cheek
From Beneath The Surface
Somewhere deep in a pool below the riffle just downstream from Rainbow Bend, browns, rainbows, brookies, steelhead and one old Chinook, that’s been decomposing since fall but doesn’t know he’s dead yet, gather for the aquatic conclave akin to the Trout Unlimited State Conference. Each fish represents his species which gave him their take on what is about to happen. That is, all except the Chinook, who is the last of his generation and not quite sure why he’s there.
It’s the end of April – not that they have a calendar, it just feels as though it’s time for them to meet and set their agenda for the coming seasons – and they’ve learned they stand a better chance of surviving if they put their collective fins together and plan.
The brown spoke first: “I’ve been replaying last year in my mind and decided I’m going to stay away from brown furry globs that plop down over my hole or just in front of the bank unless I see small legs scrambling like crazy and bobbing to get back out of the water, especially if its tail is bent underneath it.”
The rainbow spoke next. “Everything that sticks to my jaw seems to have a tail bent underneath it. I’m going to avoid those deformed small-fry that look like they came from a nuclear waste dump – not only are they deformed but some glow in the dark.”
The steelhead pulsated his gill plates in agreement. “At least you guys aren’t getting hooked by stupid looking eggs that look like dingle-berries from a sturgeon. If they didn’t float through the redds when I have other things on my mind, it would be ok, but stupid looking or not, I can’t help taking them.”
The brookie just darted around the hole and finally steadied himself in the current and put in his two cents worth. “You guys worry too much. I go after things thrown on the water, float beneath the surface of the water and are drug along the bottom. It’s kind of fun seeing some of the dumb looking things the things with two legs throw at me. It’s fun too, taking them into deadfalls and stuff where they come free from their tether. Besides, even if I get pulled in, I get let go. The only disgusting thing about the whole process is, that two legged thing that holds me, well ..it sure is ugly, really plain in color.”
The Chinook got a momentary spurt of energy and said, “You guys all fool yourselves, I have to be extra careful; most of the time I’m just sitting or swimming when something heavy with three hooks comes up from beneath me and rips off a piece of me or drags me sideways to the top.”
When he had finished his thought, he was gone. His gills stopped moving and what was left of him turned on its side and was taken by the current downstream, floating to the top where paws pulled him from the water.
TD
Category Archives: Tongue ‘n Cheek
Some People Shouldn’t Be Guides!
I fish the Jordan most of the time I’m trout fishing and have done so for years. I haven’t fished the entire length of the river, but I’ve managed to know the parts I frequent quite well and never give a thought about the rock ledges, muck and debris as I wade downstream – which I tend to do most. I’m used to the bottom, I know where the holes are and can predict pretty well what’s hiding below the surface and where. It’s almost like walking through my back yard; knowing where everything is except the little surprises Seamus leaves now and then.
Being set in my ways, I’m not the best guide when I take friends to my Jordan. Though I share what I know, I only do it once and quickly because I want to fish as much as they do. So I tell them where to go, what to expect and then we go our separate ways.
Fly fishing with me, means less is more; I like solitude and don’t like carrying on a conversation while I’m trying to outwit a native. I generally take the attitude that got drilled into my head by a man who’s creases in his uniform were sharp enough to cut rope and who let it be known that who ever told you there was no such thing as a stupid question, lied to you. He’d respond to a “stupid question” with, “improvise, adapt, overcome. “
All this is the compilation of years of being me. The fact is, if I’ve succeeded in anything, it’s the ability to piss people off just by walking into the same room. The result is, I have friends and those that tolerate me.
So, when I take on the role of guide, if I don’t stop to think and listen to the words that come out of my mouth as I’m scurrying to give instructions all the while stringing my rod, thinking about what to start off with, what I say and what I want to say, are two different things. Eventually, I’ll think about what I said and how I said it, but not until after I’ve entered the river, cast my first fly and took a deep breath and take in the simple yet complicated picture nature created that rejuvenates me each and every time I come.
I brought my friend Bill on this trek to the Jordan and I wanted him to get a good chance of landing a good fish. When we arrived I told him about a section of the river that had an easy access spot and was surrounded by good water. I told him to follow the path along the river, make his way up stream a couple of hundred yards and he’d come to a bend that had a knoll surrounded by overhanging cedars. There is a small sandbar he could stand on while he got the lay of the water and there were deep cuts along the other side of the bend with submerged logs that hold trout. Sounds simple enough.
Bill climbed down the small embankment from the road and followed what he saw as a path and began walking it up stream. I finished stringing my rod, decided to tie on a soft hackle and walked up the road to the other side of the river and followed a snowmobile trail until I got to a small feeder creek and follow it back to where it entered the Jordan.
Bill should have been nowhere for me to see, but as soon as I got to the mouth of the creek, there was Bill, standing rather uncomfortably in the middle, casting to the opposite bank. He was surprised to see me and asked of this is where I meant for him to be. Actually, I meant for him to be about two bends further up stream and couldn’t see how he could mistake this spot for where I sent him from the great directions I gave him. He went on to say, the path ran out so he slogged through the muck which was up to his crotch after the first step in, and made his way up stream until he came to an overhanging cedar. He said he figured he had walked a couple hundred yards.
It was then that I replayed what I had said in my mind and realized immediately I left out a couple of important words. The path I wanted him to take was 20 feet off the river, avoided the swampy area and went straight as the crow flies. The river bends here and there, but comes directly in front of the path I was referring to. What Bill had followed was a path used by those who knew the river and wait for the hatches to start, then move further up to fishable water.
We had a laugh at my lack of detail (I think Bill was laughing) and he climbed out of the river and busted through brush until he came to the small path and eventually found the spot. In fact, he landed the biggest fish that evening.
Most of us who spend most of our idle time doing something related to fly fishing, grouse hunting or spending time in the company of dogs, at one time or another think about being a guide. After all, guides fish or hunt all day ….don’t they? Well, I suppose some do, but not the good ones. The guides that get work make sure their clients are well instructed, advised and have an easier time at doing what they pay for than if they did it by themselves.
I still think about being a guide, making my living spending my day either in the water, on the water or in the field. But pissing people off just by walking into the same room they’re in, doesn’t make for many clients.
Maybe a shock collar would help.
TD