Tuesday, June 12, 2012

Young Again

Young

The pack on my back is heavy
The strain feels good

Cold morning air fills my lungs
Excitement building with anticipation

Young

An elk bugles in the valley ahead
Thoughts of trout race through my mind
Adventures to come
My legs can’t keep up

Air is thin
Breathe…..breathe

Scent of pine, flower and sage fill my nose
Sound of wind fill my ears

Breathe

A battle ensues
Stay….stay…..STAY!
Awake to a new day

No longer young

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

Product Test - REO Streamertip


Robbie and I began our Sunday morning with one of my favorite movies, Streamer Fishing for Trophy Trout starring Kelly Galloup. By the end of the movie we were all kinds of jazzed up to go fishing so we gathered up our gear, choked down some food, and headed to the Eno River to chase some largemouth.

Based on an earlier trip with Tbone, I figured the top water bite wasn’t going to be great, so I decided to try throwing a streamer to see if that would entice a big fish. (Watching Kelly Galloup may have had some influence also). Robbie, on the other hand, was planning to use his old faithful, the Stealth Bomber.

I had been using a sinking line with good success in reservoirs and had great success on the New River last year chasing smallies, but I had not used one on the Eno and decided to give it a whirl. Several months ago I purchased a 6 weight sinking line for shallow or slow current rivers but hadn’t used it yet. Today was going to be the test run.
 We hiked into one of my favorite secret places and it wasn’t long until we got into fish. But the white dungeon I had on wasn’t producing the aggressive strikes I was looking for so I tied on a black one and moved upstream. Three casts later the fly was hammered! “Ummmm, Robbie? You should come up here, I may need a hand.”

The fish hit like a truck, but the pull quickly changed to feel more like a small largemouth. Typical behavior of the Eno River crown jewel. When it came up from the depths I knew I had a great fish--a thirteen inch Roanoke Bass. I was really wishing I had bought that scale. This one is easily a citation.

I later switched to a root beer dungeon and picked up several largemouth with the largest being sixteen inches. No monsters today but the sinking line and dungeon setup worked great. Robbie also had a good day with multiple species of sunfish. However, as we walked back to the truck he was ready to trade in his floating line and start streamer fishing….just like the old man.

I was using a 7ft 10in 6wt Redington Predator, with the REO Streamertip WF6F/S6, and my own version of the Kelly Galloup Dungeon. The photo below shows some of my flies and all the sinking lines I own.
Over the past year I played with them trying to find the one I like the most. The problem I was having with both the 300 and 200 grain lines was controlling the depth. It just seemed that if the water was less than four feet deep I would get hung up all the time. But using a weighted fly on floating line did not allow a fast retrieve in deep water.

The REO Streamtip line casts amazingly well even with a four inch Dungeon tied on. But more importantly, I was able to drop the fly deep and then bring it up to go over a log without getting hung up. I could fish the shallow water just as easily as the deeper stuff. Well, deep for the Eno River is about five feet. If I’m going to fish much deeper than that I would want to use my 200 grain.

For the fun factor, I like the REO Streamertip by far the most. It is really fun to fish with. My other sink tips have their place but man, what a kick it is to have castability and control of fly depth with varied retrieve rates. I plan to fish this setup a lot.


I was going to sell my Redington but it’s not for sale anymore. Sorry if anyone was interested.

Monday, June 4, 2012

The Adolescence of Fly Fishing


The good Lord granted us another great day.  The morning was crisp and cool, the river was running clear, and the weatherman’s forecast was all sunny and warm.  Most importantly, I was going to fish the Eno River with my good friend Terry Hackett and we had the whole section all to ourselves.

We began our day wading side by side into a section well known by both of us to hold big largemouth bass.  I was casting at the banks on the left side and Terry on the right.  My deer hair popper landed softly next to a log on the bank and was immediately pounced on by a nice sunfish.  We continued upstream.  Another splash on the left side proved to be another sunfish on the end of my line.  We continued upstream.  Another splash…again on the left side. 

We had reached the best part of this hole and both of us knew it.  I watched as Terry made a perfect cast into the crease of two logs lying in the water.  I watched as he unveiled his presentation with full anticipation of a large fish taking the fly….but nothing.  A few more twitches proved unsuccessful as the fly floated unharmed out of the cover.  Terry looked at me clearly frustrated and began to speak—just as his fly disappeared into a swirl of water.  The fish was hooked.  

I knew it was a big fish because I saw the take.  I also could judge the size of the fish by the whooping and hollering coming from the right side of the river.  Immediately I began digging for my camera in anticipation of the photo opportunity to come.

When I downloaded the photo that evening I was surprised to see it did not show the middle aged man I was fishing with, but more of a memory of him in his adolescence.  The joy and surprise in his face revealed the hidden child still left deep in his soul. (see photo left)

Is this why we fish?  Is this why we return time after time to familiar places in a quest to repeat a treasured memory?  Is our passion for fly fishing really our inner child fighting to keep us young?  I certainly hope so.  I pray I never lose that exhilaration and pure joy when I hook another prized memory.  Somehow, I do think fly fishing helps me to cope with my inevitable mortality.

As I ponder this question and thinking of my own adolescence, I’m reminded of the moment I became a fly fisherman.  At a young age on a family camping trip near St Elmo, Colorado, I headed off on my own to a small creek next to camp.  Armed for battle with only a Zebco rod and reel, a tiny black dry fly, and of course the full intentions of catching a trout, I sat on a fallen tree that spanned the small creek with my feet dangling in the water.  Slowly letting the line out by hand, the current pulled the fish temptation downstream.   The fly continued its journey into a riffle and began bouncing up and down.  While watching the fly intently as it danced on the water, I was mesmerized by how well the tiny black fly imitated a real one.

Several minutes went by when my mind wandered to thoughts about the days my Grandpa Cope taught me how to fish.  Sometimes we would go to the reservoir and fish with a bobber, but sometimes we would cut a limb from a special tree, tie a short piece of a line on the end, attach a hook, and then head off together to a small stream near his house.  Generally, the end of the line would have a grasshopper or worm attached and I would drift the offering along the undercut backs of the river.  Many trout were caught using this technique and it was by far my favorite way to fish. 

Grandpa had recently passed away and I inherited the tackle box this magic fly came from.  As I was imagining all the mighty fish my Grandpa must have caught with this magic dancing fly, a nice rainbow trout leap completely out of the river and swallow it—the fish was hooked!  From that moment on I was a fly fisherman and it would forever consume my thoughts and deplete my wallet.  I wonder if Grandpa was sitting on the log next me when I caught that trout.  I bet he was.  

Although this memory is clearly precious, I do not long to repeat it.  I have absolutely no intension of fishing that creek again.  I much prefer chasing bigger fish in bigger rivers or seeking the rejuvenating solitude of a backcountry wild trout stream.  So the question remains, why do I love fly fishing so much?

Sitting around campfires with fishing buddies drinking bourbon and smoking cigars, the conversation has often gone to the deep meaning of fly fishing.  It seems many blogs and articles also try to answer this intangible question.  However, Terry cringes at the thought of discussions about the philosophical meaning of fly fishing.  He typically replies with a comment consisting of, “I just like to catch fish” and then tries to guide the conversation to more interesting topics.

So as I sit here trying to decipher my own thoughts, I conclude that Terry is right (I may never live that one down).  My need to find a philosophical or deep meaning for fly fishing simply comes down to  justifying  to myself, and of course to my Wife, the new fly rod I want to buy or the next guided float trip I’m dreaming of.  Fly fishing is camaraderie with friends, the relief from daily stress, and the great naps taken under a tree next to a quiet stream.  I believe fly fishing is simple, exhilarating, relaxing, and most of all fun—it’s just plain fun—and that’s good enough for me.