Monday, August 4, 2014

Once more unto the breach....


It's that time of year again.

 The 3rd Annual Great Feathers One Fly Chub Tournament
The Date: Saturday, August 23rd, 2014
Registration: 1:00pm
Fishing time: 2:00pm-4:00pm
The Entry Fee: $20(includes tee shirt)
Rules: ONE FLY fished for as many as you can catch in the time allowed. Lose the fly and you are done! You must bring a minimum of 2 pieces of garbage(more is encouraged) back to submit your score. No garbage and you are done! Most fish caught wins!
The Prize: Your name immortalized on the Trophy which stays at the store and $100 gift card!!
Following the event will be a BBQ and bragging session.


Wednesday, May 28, 2014

The Birth of the Suburban Blue Line

Let's just say that time hasn't really been on my side lately.  With all the real life shit that needs to get done on the weekends, sometimes you just don't have the time to drive 3 hours round trip to fish (and usually not catch) for a couple brief hours and get home in time to get some more real-life shit done before you have to drag your spiteful ass back to work on Monday.  After reading some cool articles out in the interwebs about fishing blue line mountain creeks and driving past some trickle streams on my soul-crushing commute, a thought was born.  A few hours of poking around and looking at some maps of the area, I decided there were just too many of these little squiggly blue lines close to home to not give them a try and my suburban blue-lining mission was ready for lift-off. 

The next weekend I grabbed my map, jumped in the car, and in 10 quick minutes I was parked on the side of the road scoping out my first creek; a glowing orange and green nuclear-looking ditch with clear, flowing water that showed me every ripple and pool. 



Time to throw a dry/dropper rig on the South Fork Rod Co. Classic 2wt and get to work.  I had parked upstream so, I got a good look at all the fishy lookin' runs and pools on my walk down stream to about as far as I felt comfortable walking before things started to get real No Trespassing like.  After about half an hour of nothing but walking the banks and picking my flies outta the trees without a single strike or putting eyes on any fish, I was starting to smell a skunk. Fuck it, at least I was out of the house and slingin' flies.  Sometimes (ok a lot of times for me, after driving 50miles one-way) that how it goes and you have to keep reminding yourself of those little happy thoughts and keep on slogging.  I was all about some positive psychological affirmation when I rounded a bend, took a step too close to the water's edge and spooked several dozen fish into hauling ass up the creek a ways.  Damn..... this power of positive thinking shit really works!!  Ok, so I scared the hell out of every fish for 100 yards upstream but I had found the little bastards (and I knew where not to drop my fat feet next time).

Work a few bends, lose a nymph in a tree, change rigs, run into a couple deer hunters out scouting, and Eureka! my Klinkhammer gets smashed and makes a bee-line for the bottom of a pool and the tree roots therein.  A little pull to seat the hook and back him off the roots before the grin sets in, the waft of skunk catches the next breeze outta town, and this little guy has the tip of my rod jumping up and down.

 
 
 
Sure, it's no Brook Trout and it didn't take long to figure out that the water in this creek wasn't gonna be cold enough for trout anyway; but it was a fish, there were many more of 'em in this ditch, and I proved my theory that I was gonna be able to fish the myriad of little feeder creeks less than 15 minutes from my house and at least once in a while, not go home with nothing to show for it but some lost flies and briar cuts on my arms.  I walked the rest of the creek back to my car, caught a few more of these feisty little fellas and went home to look at my map and plot next week's expedition....

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

Not that kind of prophet....

I won't pretend the article below is mine, merely the prelude.  They are just a few words by THE Good Doctor, Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, about an unforgettable moment in modern American history, penned and posted within 24 hours of the events of 9/11.  September 11, 2001 changed things for Americans and it changed 'em a lot, many ways in which the average citizen has no knowledge of or is willing to comprehend but the change is there none the less.  I'm not going to use words like 'forever'; a term thrown around pretty loosely these days by folks that can barely piece together a coherent thought about tragedies past that were going to be remembered and be a driving force for change in someone else's 'forever'.  We are still wet behind the ears, still a bit of a snot-nosed kid on the international block that happened to get an early growth spurt that's rocketed us into the role of the world's bodyguard / slightly learning-disabled bully.

     We'd love to think that 500 years from now, an unseasonably cool and beautiful day in the last stretch of summer that was torn open by a handful of guys looking like any other immigrant roommates who had a thing for Microsoft Flight Simulator and a few extra bills for some flying lessons in a Cessna at the local air park will still resonate deeply in the collective conscience of the American public, but I for one won't have my hard-earned money on it.  We'll still bring it up from time to time, usually around the dinner table when someone's kids learn about it in school and maybe even get a holiday out of it someday, but like all things this too shall pass and it will fade into the great ether to drift along side Lexington and Concorde, Pearl Harbor, Antietam, the Alamo.  That's how these things go and that's OK.  Our species locks these things in our storage shed and keeps drudging ever forward; never completely forgotten, just held in that space where we store all the little things that make us Americans.  We may still be a young punk in a world full of countries that measure their history in thousands of years, but everybody had to start somewhere and we're racking up a pretty good resume so far.  Now, without further ado ......



Fear & Loathing in America
By Hunter S. Thompson
an ESPN Page 2 column




It was just after dawn in Woody Creek, Colo., when the first plane hit the World Trade Center in New York City on Tuesday morning, and as usual I was writing about sports. But not for long. Football suddenly seemed irrelevant, compared to the scenes of destruction and utter devastation coming out of New York on TV.


Even ESPN was broadcasting war news. It was the worst disaster in the history of the United States, including Pearl Harbor, the San Francisco earthquake and probably the Battle of Antietam in 1862, when 23,000 were slaughtered in one day.

The Battle of the World Trade Center lasted about 99 minutes and cost 20,000 lives in two hours (according to unofficial estimates as of midnight Tuesday). The final numbers, including those from the supposedly impregnable Pentagon, across the Potomac River from Washington, likely will be higher. Anything that kills 300 trained firefighters in two hours is a world-class disaster.

And it was not even Bombs that caused this massive damage. No nuclear missiles were launched from any foreign soil, no enemy bombers flew over New York and Washington to rain death on innocent Americans. No. It was four commercial jetliners.


They were the first flights of the day from American and United Airlines, piloted by skilled and loyal U.S. citizens, and there was nothing suspicious about them when they took off from Newark, N.J., and Dulles in D.C. and Logan in Boston on routine cross-country flights to the West Coast with fully-loaded fuel tanks -- which would soon explode on impact and utterly destroy the world-famous Twin Towers of downtown Manhattan's World Trade Center. Boom! Boom! Just like that.

The towers are gone now, reduced to bloody rubble, along with all hopes for Peace in Our Time, in the United States or any other country. Make no mistake about it: We are At War now -- with somebody -- and we will stay At War with that mysterious Enemy for the rest of our lives.

It will be a Religious War, a sort of Christian Jihad, fueled by religious hatred and led by merciless fanatics on both sides. It will be guerilla warfare on a global scale, with no front lines and no identifiable enemy. Osama bin Laden may be a primitive "figurehead" -- or even dead, for all we know -- but whoever put those All-American jet planes loaded with All-American fuel into the Twin Towers and the Pentagon did it with chilling precision and accuracy. The second one was a dead-on bullseye. Straight into the middle of the skyscraper.

Nothing -- even George Bush's $350 billion "Star Wars" missile defense system -- could have prevented Tuesday's attack, and it cost next to nothing to pull off. Fewer than 20 unarmed Suicide soldiers from some apparently primitive country somewhere on the other side of the world took out the World Trade Center and half the Pentagon with three quick and costless strikes on one day. The efficiency of it was terrifying.

We are going to punish somebody for this attack, but just who or what will be blown to smithereens for it is hard to say. Maybe Afghanistan, maybe Pakistan or Iraq, or possibly all three at once. Who knows? Not even the Generals in what remains of the Pentagon or the New York papers calling for WAR seem to know who did it or where to look for them.

This is going to be a very expensive war, and Victory is not guaranteed -- for anyone, and certainly not for anyone as baffled as George W. Bush. All he knows is that his father started the war a long time ago, and that he, the goofy child-President, has been chosen by Fate and the global Oil industry to finish it Now. He will declare a National Security Emergency and clamp down Hard on Everybody, no matter where they live or why. If the guilty won't hold up their hands and confess, he and the Generals will ferret them out by force.

Good luck. He is in for a profoundly difficult job -- armed as he is with no credible Military Intelligence, no witnesses and only the ghost of Bin Laden to blame for the tragedy.

OK. It is 24 hours later now, and we are not getting much information about the Five Ws of this thing.

The numbers out of the Pentagon are baffling, as if Military Censorship has already been imposed on the media. It is ominous. The only news on TV comes from weeping victims and ignorant speculators.

The lid is on. Loose Lips Sink Ships. Don't say anything that might give aid to The Enemy.

Tuesday, September 10, 2013

This film has been modified from it's original format

    2nd annual Great Feathers One Fly Chub Tournament

 The temps are high, the river is low, and the trout are hiding out in some deep dark pool waiting for Autumn.  The dog days are usually relegated to catching up the honey-do list that you neglected during the spring and finding a little time to throw top-water for bass and bluegill at the local mud hole.  Maybe you've spend your evenings hunched over the vise; reloading fly boxes that were bursting with a myriad of fur & feather concoctions, the fruits of a long winter's toil, that have one-by-one met their demise through the evil clutches of branches, rocks, and a plethora of sunken logs and car parts.  Fear not sweaty bug-slinger, your day of respite has finally arrived; the 2nd annual Great Feathers One Fly Chub Tournament.  For a much welcomed second year, the good folks at Great Feathers Fly Shop in Sparks, Maryland hosted a day of friendly 'competition' in support of Trout Unlimited.  The format is simple; a shotgun start with a 2-hour window to catch as many creek chub (fall fish) as possible on just one fly and fill your garbage bag with the trash tossed on the river by lesser humans, in a predetermined section of the beautiful Gunpowder River.  No private creek honey holes, no swapping flies or reloading when yours meets a low-hanging oak, and the trout don't count!

     Last years inaugural event was soaking wet success in some of the hardest rain I'd seen in years that didn't include the words tropical storm or hurricane so-and-so.  The torrential downpour probably kept a few folks at home, but those who braved the elements were treated to an otherwise empty river and a great event, capped off by a smoking grill full of grub and rain-soaked fish stories back at the shop.  The weather for this years One Fly could not have been better; temps in the 80s, a dead wind, and the sun sat high in the sky as everyone piled into their vehicles in search of the mighty chub.  And so we were off.....

     My weapons of choice this time around were pretty simple; my 7' (ok, maybe 6'9" after an incident with the car trunk and some Krazy Glue) 5/6wt Eagle Claw Featherlight loaded with 7wt line and a little hopper pattern.  The chub may not have put quite the photogenic bend in the 5/6wt glass that a fatty Brown might, but it sure laid that hopper softly under the branches and right up against the bank where 8 chubs were hiding. 

    At the end of the day, we had 2 lucky fisherman raise the prestigious Great Feathers One Fly Chub Tournament trophy with 24 chub each, a pretty big pile of garbage that was no longer gunking up the Gunpowder, and a few dozen fed, fat, and happy ladies and gents already looking forward to next years tourney.  So, if you're in the area next summer; put your cash on the counter and your line in the water with us in pursuit of a not-so-elusive and not-so-trendy trash fish that'll put a smile on your face and a pretty snazzy t-shirt in your closet in support of a good cause.  Big thanks to the Great Feathers Fly Shop gang for another late-summer Saturday that was way more fun than mowing the lawn.






















Monday, August 26, 2013

Chub Chasers...... It's ok to like it

2nd Time Out

     Admit it, you love that shit.  Curled up in the corner of your room, sweaty and alone, you feel like you shouldn't.  Everything around you tells you it's not alright and you feel dirty sometimes just thinking about it.  Carefully choosing your words for the few that you are willing to confess upon.  Your asshole friends don't understand this compulsion and would give you hell for it, but secretly they love it too and wish they could admit it outside the necrotic pustules of their own narrow minds.
     Trolling the back roads with a handful of  miscreants that you stumbled into somewhere along the way, but not for long; 2 hours is all you allow yourselves of this shit before scurrying back to the safety of the front porch like ants before the storm.  It hits you every year about this time, when the Solstice has passed and you're left with the stinking, sweat-soaked waistband of summer it begins to haunt you; creeping into your thoughts like the rash crawling up your leg that you keep telling yourself  is poison oak, but know damn well it's not. Take a deep breath and lie to yourself one more time to ease your guilt, but when the noise dies down that thought you can't shake is still there.....  Chubs


     Shiny, wet, and wiggly, just the way you like 'em.  Easy to catch but hold on for the ride when you do; shaking and throwing their head all around when you hook up, a never dull though fleeting moment.  You set 'em free and mark one more line or your scorecard; pleased with yourself and wearing a grin that says so.  Up to your knees in it right now and your head is buzzing with the afterglow of a fresh catch; no shame no guilt in this moment, Hell Yeah you love this shit.  You look at your beat up old watch, tell yourself that you have time to find one more, and start looking around for your next target.  Throw that same tired line out there and give it another shot;  it's always the same shit, you can't mix it up.  So you primp a bit, run a few practice lines and lay it out there..... Got It!  and a big one too, maybe you're biggest of the year.  Look at ya, grinnin' ear to ear like the cat that ate the canary; you're damn happy with yourself and why not?  It was right where you knew it would be; hiding from the sun under the shade of that big tree, it was almost too easy.  You set your hook and let it play for a while; watching it dance and move back and forth in front of you before bringing it in close, just for a little bit.  A shit-eatin' grin while it's in your hands, maybe a couple pictures, and you gotta go.  Time is up and you need to get outta Dodge.

     Back at the truck, you still wear that guilty pleasure smile as you get your shit together and start heading back to the front porch where the other fiends are already starting to gather.  The air is already thick with smoke and tales of conquest by the time you slither in, cracking open a cold one and pulling up a chair.  Shoot the shit, tell your story, and maybe grab a bite to eat before you hit the long road back home.  You'll see these freaks again next year; when the air is melting and the river's low, they'll be here.

Thursday, July 25, 2013

Vintage Timex and Saddle Shoes for Throwback Thursday

Skunk Scenery

It ain't always ugly....

There are times when it doesn't totally suck to get nearly a dozen takes and no solid hookups.  Those times look like this...