Tag Archives: fly fishing

THURSDAY

I’m not counting the days…I’m just close enough that I can say “three” without looking at my fingers.

I just packed and shipped a big box with my gear to Josh’s place in Portland. Inside, a duffel filled with fly boxes, waders, boots, a couple hats, handwarmers, my hunting backpack, chest pack, trout net, fly reels, wet-weather gear, clothes, head-lamps, hunting knife, one corncob and 2 Grabow pipes (plus lighters)…oh yea and my 8 wt Loomis, 5 wt Scott and 3 wt Eagle Claw (yes, you read that right…Eagle Claw). It’s going to be like Christmas morning unpacking that box when it arrives Friday morning.

The plan is to camp 2-3 days each on three rivers: the Upper Deschutes, the Upper Fall and the Crooked below the Prineville Reservoir. I’m excited. Heading toward sleepless. In all my travels, I’ve never been to the Pacific Northwest. I’ve read stories about the rivers and the muscled spirits they hold. I’ve got my notebook for stream-side thoughts and fire-side recollections. I’m taking pics and video, downloading it all to my laptop when we pack out to the truck between rivers. It’s time for stories of my own. My imagination is stuck somewhere between the Field & Stream magazines of my childhood and Wonka’s factory. Golden ticket. Damn right I’ve got one.

The coolest part: I get to be on the water for  7 days with an old friend. It’s been 17 years since we we’re stationed in Germany, working god-awful hours at an ammo supply point, and keeping god-awful hours at the local bars. 17 years. We’ve got a lot of fishing to do.

Stay tuned.

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FLY FISHING IN HOLLAND, Installment 3, Thesis

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I once fished a brackish water lake in Holland near the Port of Rotterdam for rainbows. Bought a train ticket & boarded at Den Haag Centrum at 6:21 for a twenty-two minute ride to Rotterdam, catching a subway at Rotterdam Centrum bound for Spijkenisse to meet Harry, who would drive to Oostvoornse Meer & show me how to fish the lake.

Meer is Dutch for lake.

I traveled with my waders, boots, vest, rod case & wore my Stetson.

The train & subway rides were like this:
Buildings in their geometric slumber.
Steel wheels switching track, screaming & switching again.
Gray-violet sky & street lights over efficient cars parked in impossible spaces.
Graffiti. O the heavenly, decadent graffiti.
Tiny seasonal shacks & greenhouses splitting a canal with a factory, both
sending blooms skyward.
Bridges & irrigation canals & bridges & graffiti & clean architectural lines & a
low skyline & two white geese & poplar windbreaks & crazy single lane streets &
high voltage power line towers.
Light in the clouds like the blood of God.

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Standing in saltwater that big, playing the odds with a bet that’s the size of a gorged mosquito, I felt pointless & foreign.

Beyond the dunes lay a highway, beyond that rail-cars carried armored personnel carriers to be shipped out of the port; ships moored on the horizon, stoic iron architecture below the labor of cranes & smoke stacks.
This lake is protected, the fish introduced.
I dipped my hand & tasted the water.
Here they are trying to find ways to include nature within the crowd.
Harry showed me a tern’s nest in the cattails, full of eggs–explained how the lake would be completely freshwater in thirty years due to springs throughout the shallows.
Warm air blew in from the east & emptied me.

The fish were immense & beautiful. We hooked them on size 16 green nymphs & hawthorn fly imitations.

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TIME ON THE WATER

mornings like this
remind me that there is more

the world goes on and on
forever around the next bend

the next draw or downed tree
it’s own universe alive and unsolved

there is no possibility like this
to stand for a moment or longer

cast after cast an admission
how small a space my breath occupies

the sun follows its own arc behind the clouds
deliberate as my line now taut in the current

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HOOKY

I love to fish. Early mornings. Late afternoon to dusk. Lake, stream, pond, puddle…I fish for whatever’s swimming. And there are days when I’m just as excited to catch sunfish on a micro-popper with my 3-weight fly rod as I am to set the hook on a smallmouth with a 6″ Texas-rigged rubber worm. Summer is my primary season to fish, since hunting for deer and geese has my Falls spoken for. But the truth is, if I can get out and fish, even once during the “off” season (using that term very loosely), it’s a great bonus.

There were times in my life that I’d have the luxury of spending entire days on the water. But, just like the shape of some streams change under the influence of current and time, my fishing opportunities too have changed. Kids, work, coaching, volunteer boards…no one season is long enough anymore, let alone a weekend or even a day. I am fortunate that my kids are getting to the age though where we can go fishing together rather than me taking them fishing – parents with kids that fish understand the huge distinction in that. But as for “me time” on the water – where I’m able to be as aggressive or slow as I’d like without having to maintain that extra level of kid-vigilance – my love for fishing, a certain personality trait I like to call “ingenuity” and a bit of good-luck has helped maintain a fruitful compromise.

The last two days I’ve been able to close my laptop at noon, announce that I’m heading out for a bit and then sneak off and play hooky from work for about an hour. I now have a co-worker-turned-fishing-partner as an accomplice who joins me too. It’s nice to have the comaraderie. We fore-go lunch. Eating is over-rated when you have a tremendous trout and fall salmon fishery not five minutes (or two miles as the crow flies) from work.

I say tremendous, not because it’s a blue-ribbon stream or because it winds it’s way through wild sweeping vistas – but rather, in spite of the sprawl of suburbia not fifty yards away, it might as well be fifty miles. I’m able to lose myself in the sound of the water, the reflection of the mid-day light on it’s roiling and determined surface. The gentle flight of my fly line finding it’s way silently above the flow. Heron, muskrat, squirrels, blue jays and cardinals busy with their day-to-day. Trees standing stark above the tangle of underbrush along the bank, waiting for winter. Waiting for the possibility of that electric shock when a trout picks my fly unceremoniously from some downward current off the near side of a boulder across and slightly downstream from where I’m standing.

For that brief time, that short respite from my desk and every other thing pulling me in every other direction, I get to breathe deep. I get to be a kid fishing away my summers. I get to recapture perspective and appreciation for what I’ve got. I get to be gone, gone, gone – even if it’s only two miles as the crow flies.

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