No Clear Line

Baker, or Cook?

2012-01-10T22:46:00.000-06:00

Like many in the fly fishing community, I began tying flies as a way to be able to participate in the sport when not actually on the water. I took a class at my local Orvis store, bought books, tools, materials, and tentatively started tying without a great deal of faith that any of my creations would actually fool a fish.

I began with the ubiquitous wooly bugger. Try though I may, my versions never seemed to quite emulate the pictures in the books. The bodies were lumpy, the proportions seemed wrong, and I couldn't for the life of me keep the thread from crowding the eye as I tried to make a neat head.

Next came the hare's ear. Then an Adams. All were equally misshapen and ungainly. It was clear from my early work that I was no threat to any professional tiers, other than the potential of them hyperventilating from laughter upon viewing the fruits of my ~~loom~~ vise.

Most of these early attempts ended up in my discard bin, though I gave some away and actually fished a few.

As I slowly began to compile more information about fly tying through books, videos, and tutoring, I became familiar with the fly "recipe". This, for the uninitiated, is a list of materials used in the construction of a fly.

For example, a standard wooly bugger recipe might look like this:

Hook: TMC 5262, 5263 or Daiichi 2220 #2-12
Weight: lead wire sized to hook, 6-12 turns
Thread: Black 3/0 Monocord
Tail: Black Marabou
Flash: Black Holographic flashabou
Rib: Small wire, color of choice
Body: Medium olive chenille
Hackle: Black rooster saddle
(photo and recipe from Charlie's Flybox, )

So as a new tier, I would gather my shopping list for supplies and run off to the local fly shop to purchase each needed item. Often, one or more of the "ingredients" could not be found locally, and sometimes not even on the web, because the materials had been discontinued or re-branded.

Usually a helpful fly shop employee or local tiers would recommend alternate materials. They would say, "Sure the recipe calls for black monocord, but really any black thread will do". I usually received this advice with skepticism, and to this day I really don't like substituting materials. It can really put a tarnish my day if I can't find the specific feather, bead, or hook as recommended by the recipe's author. I base that on the potentially naive belief that the author of said recipe has already done a good bit of experimentation before settling on the published version. Perhaps that is a jump of logic, but that's were I land.

To use a cooking analogy, I think fly tiers fall into two basic categories; bakers or cooks. Baking is a fairly exacting culinary art. At its core is chemistry and physics. If the recipe calls for general purpose flour, using cake flour is not going to yield the results you hoped for. If the measurement calls for one teaspoon of baking soda, you had better use exactly 1 teaspoon. Want to bake something twice as fast? Not a good idea to double the oven temperature.

My wife is a great cook, and she is at her finest when she improvises with a recipe. She looks at a recipe as a place to start, but prefers to create her own interpretation by substituting this for that, or adding this spice and that flavoring to make the dish her own. But if she tries that approach when baking, the bread may not rise, the cake may fall, or the cheesecake may not set.

I tend to lean more to the side of the baker than that of the cook, but as I gain experience, I am becoming more comfortable tweaking the fly a bit. I still prefer to tie it first as written, and deviate for fun, rather than from necessity due to missing materials.

So where do you fall as a tier? Do you try to stay true to the recipe and tying instructions, or do you tend to walk on the wild side? And if you are a more adventurous tier, did you start that way, or did you stick closer to the recommended recipe early in your tying endeavors?

The Fly Bakery

Turn, Turn Turn...

2012-01-01T12:03:00.000-06:00

To Everything (Turn, Turn, Turn)
There is a season (Turn, Turn, Turn)
And a time to every purpose, under Heaven

A time to be born, a time to die
A time to plant, a time to reap
A time to kill, a time to heal
A time to laugh, a time to weep

Words adapted from the book of Ecclesiastes, recorded by the Byrds

I suppose it is normal on the beginning of a new year to take time to look back at the old; to recall with nostalgia; and to marvel and the experiences and events of the last twelve months.

This year my wife and I rang in the new year quietly at home; watching Dick Clark's countdown and realizing how out of the loop I am with regards to popular music these days (I think this establishes my descent into curmudgeon-ism ). I wondered at the volume and number of fireworks being set off in the neighborhood; it sounded like Sherman marching on Atlanta.

I thought I would try to capture a few significant events in my life this past year, month by month. It certainly is not exhaustive or complete, and has only been fueled by one cup of coffee this New Year's day. So with those disclaimers, I begin my year in review.

January 2011
2011 was an eventful year for me personally. In December of 2010 our president of the Guadalupe River Trout Unlimited chapter passed away after a series of heart attacks. Bill Higdon was more than a chapter president. He was a Vietnam war vet, one of the first trout guides on the Guadalupe River, mentor, and friend. He lived on the banks of the river he loved, and his house was a regular stop for many of our trips to the Guad.
Bill's house was the site of his memorial service, and his ashes were spread in the river behind the house; the same waters where was baptized. Below is a pic of Bill on the oars on the Guad:

As Bill's VP, I assumed his remaining term. So in January I was grappling with those realities, as well as mourning the loss of a friend.

February
In February, the chapter held its first big Trout Fest, complete with celebrity guests,a showing of the Fly Fishing Film Tour, and keynote speaker Carter Smith, exec director of Texas Parks and Wildlife. Those of us on the planning committee were tired, happy, and relieved that the festival was a success.

March
March was not particularly eventful as I recall. White Bass runs wee delayed a bit, but I did have several successful outings with my friend Kevin. Enough to plan a fish fry...that we still haven't had. Maybe that should be one of my resolutions??

April
Probably the most significant thing I recall about April is that I attended the first planning meeting for a mission trip to Tanzania. It was an exploratory meeting to understand something of the mission, the country, and the commitment. Thus began several weeks of prayer and trying to discern God's leading for me. It also marked my fifth wedding anniversary to my amazing and incredible wife. (I Cross My Heart!)

May
In May, I reached the half century mark in my life. Suddenly the AARP mail invitations became a bit less of a joke...well at least for me. My family still gets a kick out of them.
My wife and church family conspired to give me a 50th birthday party that I will never forget. It was a complete surprise (I don't really celebrate birthdays), and very appreciated. It was very humbling to have my family, church family, and some of my work family there with me. Definitely a highlight!

June
Planning for Tanzania continued, and I began all the immunizations needed (over $700 worth) to guard my health. The mission team continued to meet to learn more about the country and the people we would be working with. By June became very evident that a serious drought was well entrenched in central Texas.

July
Planning for Trout Unlimited's annual meeting in Bend, OR were underway, with me working on some award nominations for a few of our stand out Guadalupe River chapter members.
On the 26th, we began the long journey to Tanzania with a drive from the Austin area, to the airport in Houston. I would be away for two weeks. The longest my wife and I had ever been apart prior to this was probably two days. It was a life-changing journey for me, but as is often the case when a husband leaves on a mission, the real burden is carried by the wife at home. Without her support none of it would have been possible.
In July we lost another of "The Greatest Generation"; one I was privileged to know. M.F. Kirby, WW2 P-38 ace

August
I returned from Tanzania, healthy, happy, but exhausted. I will never be able to look at hot water, clean water, (any water), good roads, and American affluence in the same way again. Nor will AIDS be merely something I read about or saw on television. When I hear the word "orphan", no longer will I think of nameless, faceless children. I checked off one of the things on my bucket list after participating in a safari; though I should asterisk it. This safari was a photo safari of a few hours. I still want to come back for a true hunting safari someday.
I have been immeasurably challenged and changed by my experiences in Tanzania. Only God knows to what end.

Most of the month was spent getting back to "normal". But just as I thought normal was possible, my wife decided the time had come to meet her biological father. So we began to plan that direction.

September
Once again I was on a plane, this time bound for Nashville. We had a whirlwind weekend, meeting my wife's biological father, her stepbrother and stepmother on the banks of the Cumberland River. Interesting; so many monumental moments in my life have occurred on, in, or nearby rivers. But I digress. My brother lives in Nashville, and we were able to pay him a long overdue visit, and then drive to the Chattanooga area to visit my parents, my sister and her family. It was a very good, but emotionally exhausting trip.

A week later I was on yet another plane, this time bound for beautiful Bend Oregon for the Trout Unlimited annual meeting. The meeting was amazing, and two rivers were added to my "fished" list; the Metolious and the Deschutes.

October
Archery season (my second) for whitetail deer opened. I experienced the disappointment of shooting and losing a buck, not once but twice. Something that I am still very discouraged about. But it drove me to improve my bow hunting skills and fine-tune my equipment. I am now more confident in my abilities; but far from over-confident. October 17th brought tragedy for my family. My brother in law Jim died suddenly at 50 years of age. We flew to Tennessee to be with our family during that time, which was both painful and healing.

November
No surprise, I find myself back on a plane. This time headed to Heber Springs, AR, for the first ever mid-south regional meeting. The meetings were a great success, new friends found, older friendships strengthened, and much information to digest about hydro-fracing, aquatic invasives, and the TU organizational structure. One more river, the Little Red, was added to my "fished" list.

December
The year ended with me spending each day of the week after Christmas hunting, fishing, or both. I was excited to receive an iPhone (my first smartphone, look out world!) and some awesome gifts from my kids, some purchased, some crafted, and all very much appreciated.

Well, if you are still reading, thanks. I hope to be able to post more this coming year, and do so well enough to attract more regular readers. Now I guess I need to get up from the desk and begin the new year with some outdoor activity while the weather holds.

Conversion

2011-12-04T19:56:00.001-06:00

Yesterday I had the joy of taking my wife and a friend to take part in an introduction to fly fishing class on the Guadalupe River.

My wife has fly fished some, but after a lesson with an impatient instructor (yours truly), I heeded the wise advice heard in flyshops; hiring a guide is cheaper than hiring a divorce attorney.

Chris Jackson, owner of Action Angler conducted an inexpensive class for fly fishing beginners near the third crossing of the Guad. The great advantage here is that not only would students get hands on instruction, they would also have the opportunity to put the lessons to immediate use in the trophy trout section of one of the nation's top 100 trout streams. Proceeds form the class go to help stock the river. It's a great win-win.

The weather was spectacular, as long as you like cool and wet. Being that we are in an extreme drought, I was relishing the light rain that began falling Friday morning, and continued throughout Saturday. It was the gentle soaking rain we needed so greatly. So while it was a little uncomfortable for the ladies, rain gear and waders made it bearable.

I knew this was an important day for the girls, so I had to make sure to start them right, with coffee and kolaches from Sweeties Donuts in Sattler, TX. If you don't start at Sweeties, you simply won't catch fish.

Soon we received our orders and were back on the road again. This was our friend Abbie's first time on River Road, and she was in awe of the scenery.

After only a few minutes we arrived at the entrance to Action Angler, shrouded in light rain and fog.

Several students had already arrived and parking was filling up fast. The ladies quickly went in to sign in, don waders, and join the other participants anxiously milling about on the porch.

As the lessons began, I snapped a couple of pictures, then turned the camera over to my wife and made myself scarce. I wanted the ladies to enjoy their lesson without feeling any pressure from me. Plus it gave me a couple of hours to fish for the first time this trout season on the Guad.

I drove to a nearby lease access point that is available to members of Guadalupe River Trout Unlimited's lease access program and began to fish upstream.

The water levels are very low, and I bumped several large rainbows in less than eight inches of water.The fish were in slots worn in the limestone riverbed. Normally the fish are in much deeper water for protection from avian predators. I assume they felt less exposed with the heavily overcast skies, but I was still quite surprised they were there. I am pretty familiar with this stretch of the river and have never seen large trout in those shallow slots.

I began to pick up fish in some of the faster water once I switched from a soft hackle

to a zebra midge.

As is normally true, the hours on the river pass much more quickly than the hours in the office, and soon it was time to re-join the ladies. True to form, the guides continued to coach and offer encouragement to all the students a full hour past their committed time.

Here we are at the conclusion of the lesson, wet, happy and hungry. So, what to do but introduce them to another Guadalupe trout fishing tradition...Real Pit BBQ, for a chopped beef sandwich.

I was hungry, so I was driving a little fast when Abbie said..."slow down, I can't get enough of how beautiful it is here".

...I think we may have a couple of converts.

Blood Knots

2011-10-27T18:38:00.000-05:00

When I began fly fishing, one of the intimidating skills to master was tying knots. There were so many to learn! One to attach your backing to the reel (arbor knot), one to attach your flyline to the backing (Duncan loop or Bimini twist), another to attach your leader to the flyline (nail knot), one to attach tippet to leader (blood knot, or double surgeons loop), and finally a knot to attach a fly to your tippet (clinch, Duncan loop, Davy knot, etc.). Some knots were specifically useful for joining two lines of differing diameter or construction.

Regardless of the knot used, there were some instructions that were common for all.

First, the knots have to be tied exactly. Deviations, whether intentional or accidental would likely result in a knot failure, which could mean losing a fish of a lifetime.

Second, knots should be moistened before drawing them tight. This allows the loops of line to slide into place properly.

Third, friction is important to the knot holding properly, but too much friction when drawing the knot tight could actually damage the knot and cause it to fail when under pressure, even though it looks fine. So draw the knot together slowly - take time for the knot to properly form under a small amount of gradual pressure.

Finally, test the knot before use. Inspect it visually, and place pressure on it to make sure it holds under stress.

As I started fly fishing, I kept a little instruction book in my vest to remind me how to tie certain knots. It took a lot of time for my unlearned fingers to tie each knot, and I had to refer to the book often. I hated changing flies or breaking my tippet becuase it took me 10 minutes and multiple attempts to tie a new knot.

I noticed that there were lots of knots I could choose to learn, but only a few that I used a lot. I determined to learn those 3 or 4 knots very well. I practiced at home. I watched videos of other people tying them. And I fished.

I lost fish due to my lack of knot tying expertise. I could tell when the knot failed because the line showed little corkscrews where the knot had been before it fell apart. I would get angry at myself, and feel guilty for not being a better fisherman. Then I pulled out the little book and started over again, trying to do better and hopefully learning from my mistakes.

Early on after a knot would fail, I would re-tie. The next fish I caught would leave me weak in the knees, knowing that thin gossamer lines with my feeble knots were the only thing that connected me to the life on the other end. The trout would shake its head, sending vibrations up the line through my rod and to my hand like electricity; the current alternating between terrorizing and thrilling me.

As time went on, my connections improved. As my knots improved, so did my catch rates. Still, years later there are times that my connections fail. Sometimes I am unable to determine why. Perhaps the tippet material was faulty from manufacture. Or perhaps it had grown weak because of the environment it was exposed to, ultraviolet rays damaging in ways the eye cannot perceive. Even though my tying was practiced and I has confidence in it, perhaps I took my skills for granted and the knot failed due to my inattention.

Always, I begin again. Practicing the fundamentals, but never guaranteed success. In order to catch fish, I must risk losing fish.

I must risk the embarrassment of losing a fish among friends or onlookers. I must chance smirks and heads shaken sadly at my apparent lack of skill.

But when the trophy is landed...isn't it worth the risk?

As a child my connections to life were simple and clumsy. I reveled in those ties, and celebrated short lived victories much more than I mourned over the losses.

As a teenage boy, my attempts at connection had matured, but they were still unsure and often faulty.

In my first marriage, I thought I was skilled at the connections of matrimony. So I allowed myself to be distracted with other things; and taking my skill for granted I lost that connection.

After that, there was a period of time when I chose to no longer seek connection, but rather to insulate and protect myself from loss, and the smirks of others. I vowed never to lose a connection again, and feel the pain of loss; the guilt of failure.

But then slowly, with help and encouragement from others, I reached into my vest for a little book for instructions, and began to tie again. The book said in part " Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails."

I paid attention to how the new connection was constructed, and remembered that a little friction was inportant...but not too much. I didn't take the connection or my skill in creating it for granted. I allowed time for the knot to intertwine and come together correctly with small amounts of gradual pressure, the two disimilar materials to binding into one. The knot was formed, seated, and has been tested.

The new connection has electricity; it still leaves me weak in the knees. Periodically I check the knots and they are strong and hold fast.

And, oh, the trophy was worth the risk.

"Life is not tried, it is merely survived, standing outside the fire"
- Garth Brooks

The Thrill of Victory...

2011-10-06T21:55:00.001-05:00

Last Saturday was the Texas opener for bow season. I am a life long outdoorsman, but I only took up bow hunting last year...and I fell hard for it. I blew a shot on my first buck my rookie year; a nice 9 point that I still see in my dreams. I had shots at does several times, but I held off trying to take one until the last day of the season. Of course the does that came in that day never presented a shot.

I share a lease with three buddies, all but one of us bow hunts. The guys who use bows prefer them, and we hunt exclusively with stick and string, unless we are trying to take out a few feral hogs...a story for another post.

I was 30 minutes early at our rendezvous that morning. and the drive into the hill country of Texas slid by in a blur. I crept to my tree stand with over an hour before first light. As I walked my headlamp caught the reflection of two eyes about 30 yards from my stand. They did not move, but I thought for sure whatever it was would spook as I climbed into the tree.

As I settled in on the platform, I noticed that is was a rare windless morning. Most of the time I feel like I need spurs and a saddle to stay with this tree as we sway in the wind. But this day was calm, and just cool enough for a light fleece jacket. The early morning air was not silent, but rather full of sounds as the ranch land residents shook off slumber.

Thirty minutes before the eastern sky began to brighten, I heard the hogs making their was to my setup. But it was too dark to make out much other than 10 or so black grunting wraiths. There would be no pork for my freezer this day, and I was concerned that the hogs might push any deer out of the area. It turned out my fears were unfounded.

Just at daylight, I caught the movement of a deer from the corner of my eye. Within moments it stepped into range...followed by a second whitetail, then another. It was still to dark to make out any antlers, so I had to wait, unable to will the sun to rise any faster.

Slowly I was finally able to make out headgear on all three bucks; all three were 8 pointers, and all shooters. There was one slightly larger than the other two, and I decided to wait for a shot on that one. Naturally this meant that the other two deer offered numerous shot opportunities at 15 - 20 yards, while my buck hung back out of range or behind trees.

The two smaller bucks engaged in a little sparring, though not very enthusiastically. The rut in this area is normally still a couple months away, so this was little more than a gentle locking of antlers.

Finally after watching this group for thirty minutes, they acted like they were about to leave, beginning to walk slowly away. The big buck still offered no shot, but the middling buck did. It was a tight 34 yard shot through a little window in the tree branches no larger than a volleyball. I came to full draw, settled the sight pin just behind the buck's shoulder and touched the release.

The arrow struck exactly where I held the pin, and I heard a solid hit, The buck spun and ran off with the arrow attached. I drew a deep breath, and noted the time. I smiled to myself at having taken my first opening day buck. I drank some water and ate a Cliff bar to quiet the growling in my mid-section and after thirty minutes I climbed down to begin tracking the buck.

I noted the little cedar shrub the buck stood by when I loosed the arrow, so I would know where to begin searching for the blood trail. To my surprise, I found no blood. I began slowly walking looking for any spec of blood, and found none after about 5 yards; then 10, then 30. In fact I never found any blood, nor did I find the buck, even after searching for four hours, the last hour with my two hunting buddies.

I keep replaying the shot in my mind, and the last time I saw the buck. It makes me sick that I couldn't recover him. One of my buddies said "if you have never lost a deer, you haven;t hunted them very much".
I suppose he is right, but it still doesn't sit well. I have lost an occasional dove, but losing an 8-point is just something I was not prepared for.

One of my buddies went back out to the lease today, but there was still no sign of the buck. I have no idea what happened, but I know the shot was accurate. I cranked up the poundage on my bow tonight and got in some backyard practice with the new draw weight. I hope it will equate to better arrow penetration next time.

Fall on the Upper Deschutes

2011-09-25T19:16:00.001-05:00

As I mentioned in my last post about the Metolius River and Bend, OR, I also had an opportunity to fish the upper Deschutes River. One of the very cool things about this part of Oregon is that there are more fishable, accessible rivers than you can shake a stick (or flyrod) at.. But that didn't stop me from trying.

After some helpful directions and a hand drawn map from a local fly shop, we set out on a cloudy misty morning....

After a few stops and starts, we spied the fruits of our orienteering...

A convenient pull out was found...

After a few minutes (ok, 20 minutes) of rigging and getting into waders we were off. All fly fishers know that the amount of time required for rigging is directly proportional to the excitement of the day. It seems I can never tie a good knot in my tippet, find my wading belt, or get my boots laced correctly the first time on a new river; and the more so with a famous river. For me the same is true or the first trip of the season to a familiar river.

The pullout was next to a bridge, and we decided to fish upstream from there, since we had seen another fisherman head downstream; a decision we would later regret. Upstream most of the river included variations on this theme.

The water was out of its banks, due to an unusually deep snow pack last winter. Snow will begin to fly again in about a month in this area, and some of the old snow pack will remain.

The water was cold, and exceedingly clear. The river was mostly too deep to wade, so we were relegated to fishing from the banks. The river here is not wide, so I fished up one bank, Phil took the other. We had to be careful our casts didn't touch in the middle.

The main issue with fishing this section of the upper Deschutes was all of the dead-falls in the water and on the banks. Footing was treacherous. Slips and falls were pretty common for me. Banged up knees and shins were the price of admission. I was doing my best Dick Van Dyke impersonations all day long.

We were told at the fly shop that wooly buggers would do well here. However with so much wood in the water, I lost 2 lost buggers on successive casts, I changed to dry flies even though there were no significant hatches coming off...only occasional size 20 mayflies.

The fish, though small, were looking up. They hit flies placed in pockets around the fallen trees with abandon, Their colors were breathtaking.

After losing my smaller flies, I chose a larger , and was rewarded with this larger (about 12") fish.
After landing it, I was surprised that it took my fly. There wasn't much room in her mouth..

It looks like a small trout had been her main course...and my fly was desert...

Brook trout were plentiful and colorful..

Between the two of us, we probably landed in excess of 30 fish by lunchtime. We learned from a fellow at the pull out that the downstream path lead to large pools stacked with Brook trout as lard as 6 pounds ( he showed pictures of some he had taken). He also recommended that next time we come that we throw some big intruder style flies in a downstream and across drift with a sinking line to hook some of those beasts.On this river, he said, you only catch dinks with dry flies.

That is advice I will remember should I be fortunate enough to ply these waters again, And I pray I do.

Bender

2011-09-22T13:10:00.002-05:00

Life has been busy and a bit off for me lately. The extreme drought in Texas seems to have coated my soul with ash and grit. My desire to be outdoors tempered with the sadness of seeing wildlife, trees and rivers slowly consumed by heat and lack of rain. I have not visited my normal local fishing spots for many weeks because I just can't stand to see them in such a sad state; not to mention all the people who have lost homes, lives and property. Just last night I had a vivid dream that my home burned while attempts to put it out with a garden hose failed.

In times like this, sometimes the only thing you can do is go on a bender...or in my case go to Bend, OR, the town famous for the saying "it's a drinking town with a fishing problem".

I am fortunate that in my role as a chapter president for Trout Unlimited, I am invited to attend the T.U. annual meeting. This year it was held in Bend, and it was my first visit to that particular part of the country just east of the Cascades. If you are pressed for time and want to skip the rest of this post, here is the executive summary: Bend is simply one of the most beautiful and friendly places I have ever visited.

Our accommodations for the week were at the Oxford hotel downtown. Our TU meetings were held here and across the street at the Phoenix hotel. The Oxford is a family owned business, and they must allow employees to be part owners, because I have never experienced a more hospitable and friendly staff, from management to maids.I would definitely stay there if I was ever in the area again.

Trout Unlimited, not surprisingly, has a lot of anglers in its ranks of volunteers, and so Wednesday was a designated fishing day. I think over the years the organization realized that if we don't get a chance to fish before the meetings begin, attendance will suffer.

The three representatives from Texas chose to fish the famous Metolius River, home to a very robust population of Bull Trout, a threatened species. These are large predatory trout that require large heavy streamers, sinking lines and hefty rods to bring them to hand (though there are stories of people catching them on nymphs occasionally). The Metolius is a fast moving river, so the weight is needed to get the flies down deep.

We were hosted (read - guided by TU volunteer Michael McLandress), so that we had some help finding a spot to fish. The Metolius bubbles out of the ground near Black Butte, and rolls into a beautiful conifer forest. The woods around smelled like those candles everyone burns at Christmas to make their houses smell festive. After smelling smoke for weeks, it was cathartic.

We arrived at the Camp Sherman store and flyshop, to gear up , study maps, and plan our strategy for the day..

Across the road from the store was this...where you can watch kokanee salmon swimming up on their spawning run (none today)

And looking upstream, this beautiful scene...

Informational sign at the fish overlook...

GRTU member and national grassroots trustee Mick McCorcle with his bull trout game face on...

Looking downstream from the footbridge. The flows are deceptively fast and strong with lots of deep holes. No place to lose your footing.

An old cabin just feet from the river. At this point much of the flow is spring fed, and are pretty consistent

Phil Dopson, GRTU treasurer plying the water for bulls with large streamers

None of our party hooked any fish on this day, but later in the week we headed to the Deschutes River with much different results. I will post those pics later.

I left the Metolius that day worn out from casting large flies in a deep, fast-moving current. But I felt renewed.

"I have fished through fishless days that I remember happily without regret.” – Roderick Haig-Brown

In Honor of M.F. Kirby II

2011-07-25T07:15:00.001-05:00

In honor of Marion Franklin Kirby II, who passed from this life July 10, 2011

High Flight

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew -
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untresspassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

-Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee

-----------------------------------------------

Mr. Kirby was the father of a friend, and was one of "The Greatest Generation". I was honored to spend many days at his ranch hunting and fishing through the last 14 years. Most of those days involved sharing at least one meal with M.F., and listening to his stories.

Among the memorabila on his ranch house wall were personal letters from Charles Lindbergh, and a shadow box with his wings from WW2 that were taken on one of the shuttle missions, with a signed picture of the crew and specs on how high, how far, and how fast the wings went on that mission.

Marion Franklin Kirby was born in Louisville, Kentucky on 14 July 1919. Joining the Army Air Forces from Lometa, Texas, he completed flight training on 12 December 1941, five days after Pearl Harbor.

Sent to the Southwest Pacific, Lieutenant Kirby flew P-38s with the 80th Fighter Squadron, 8th Fighter Group, based in New Guinea he was credited with probably destroying an Oscar between Lae and Salamaua on 21 May 1943. On 15 July he transferred to the newly organized 431st Fighter Squadron, 475th Fighter Group, then based in Australia.

The Group moved to New Guinea in August. Operating out of Dobodura, Kirby logged his first victory with the 431st on 15 October, downing a Val dive bomber over Oro Bay, and two days later shot down a Zeke near Buna Bay. On 23 October, escorting B-24s to Rabaul, the 431st engaged 25-30 Japanese fighters diving on the bombers. In the ensuing combat, Kirby destroyed a Hamp.

Fifth Air Force's campaign to neutralize Rabaul was capped by the 475th's 2 November mission. Timed to support the U.S. landings on Bougainville, the 475th Fighter Group's sweep to Rabaul was intended to keep Japanese aircraft out of Simpson Harbor. Shortly after passing the shoreline, Kirby noticed a B-25 with its right engine afire. Five or six Japanese fighters were trying to establish a gunnery pattern on the Mitchell, and Kirby dove into them, knocking down one. Turning back, he splashed another to become an ace.

Kirby left the Air Force after the war and graduated from Louisiana State University in 1948 with a bachelor's degree in geology. He then joined the Gulf Oil Corporation and worked for them for 12 years, following which he established his own oil business. He retired to Lampasas, Texas in 1975.

Tally Record:5 Confirmed
1 Probable

Decorations:
Silver Star
Distinguished Flying Cross
Air Medal with 3 Oak Leaf Clusters

Mr. Kirby (center) in 2005 at a squadron reunion

A grateful nation thanks him for his service.

10,000 Miles From Home

2011-07-08T16:43:00.001-05:00

The last several months my thoughts have been filled with plans for a trip to the "dark continent" of Africa. Soon I will find myself packing and boarding a plane for a very long journey of 10,000 miles one way to reach my destination in the country of Tanzania.

From the seeds planted in my youthful mind by Tarzan movies, displays from visiting missionaries, books about safaris and dreams of hunting dangerous game there, Africa has always fascinated me. I never thought I would go there, let alone in the capacity in which I find myself.

I am not going for a vacation.I will not be with my family due to many factors, not the least of which is cost. I will not be on safari, but rather on a mission trip, working in the Makwale Orphanage

Here is a link to Amanda's blog. She is the new orphanage director, and it will give you a sense of where I am going.

The orphanage is home to 47 children, most orphaned due to HIV/AIDs, which has ravaged sub-Saharan Africa. Due to this disease, the average age in Tanzania is 15.

Several people have asked me how I came to the decision to go to Tanzania. The full answer would take a long time to provide, so let me just hit the highlights.

Through the discipleship and mentoring from a dear friend, I was introduced to short term mission trips several years ago. I went on several here in Texas, working in the aftermath of hurricane Ike which hit Galveston.

Recently I read two incredible books..."Radical" by David Platt, and "Crazy Love" by Francis Chan. These books challenged me to really look at how I live my life as a Christ follower, and how I was investing in others.

I had to wrestle with the following facts

The great commission (Matthew 28:19-20) is a command to all believers, not a call. Where we go and how long we stay is the call. As a Air Force veteran, I am familiar with commands. They require immediate and complete obedience. They are not optional.
If you make $50k a year, you are wealthier than 99% of the people on this earth.
The average income in Tanzania is $500/year
Sub-Saharan Africa, home to just 12% of the world’s population, accounts for 2 out of every 3 people living with HIV
Nearly 3 in 4 deaths related to AIDS occur in sub-Saharan Africa
At least 3 of every 4 AIDS orphans live in sub-Saharan Africa
43.4 million orphans live in sub-Saharan Africa

I have felt a very real call to go on this short term trip to share the love of Christ in practical ways with people I have never met. I hope to be able to meet some physical needs. I have been asked to preach in a village on Sunday, and lead some training for male church leaders in 2 different districts.

To say that I am excited is a gross understatement. I feel the weight of responsibility to represent Jesus to these people and do so in a way that brings honor and glory to Him, not me.

Will you pray for us as we go?

Ten Minutes Away

2011-06-06T12:16:00.000-05:00

Today's post isn't a foray to elicit a visceral response as much as it is a celebration of how simple the enjoyment of fly fishing can be.And I suspect the pictures are of more interest than my moderation.

Due to commitments and conflicting schedules, the plans fish a river that is relatively unexplored by your author had to be shelved.

Fortunately within about ten minutes of my front door I can find a modicum of solitude in a small creek that is overlooked by most. My only companions this weekend were a few deer, a young raccoon, a gray fox and some feisty small water fish.

This kind of water is perfect for my little 6 foot 4wt Lamiglass rod, custom made by the Old Yankee Rodsmith. Casting is not for the faint of heart...in some cases the only chance is a bow and arrow cast.
The fish are generally not going to make any record books (not that I care about record books anyway), but they are breathtakingly beautiful.

The fish can be very selective at times, but this weekend they seemed content to smash a Hare's Ear and a black over gray Cat's Whisker. I usually only changed flies after losing one to the trees from an errant back cast.

As the sun dipped low, I changed over to a black foam micro popper. The supple glass rod was just the ticket for snaking the fly through an opening in the trees onto a flat section of water. I caught fish until I yielded the water to a snake who was looking for dinner. Which reminded me that I had dinner and a welcome waiting for me...ten minutes away.

Winkin, Blinkin, Nod

2011-04-30T10:42:00.000-05:00

Dreams were always a big part of my childhood. As the son of a pastor, our means were meager, so dreams often had to suffice for reality.

One such dream concerned a red mini bike. The images were so real that when I awoke, I searched the house looking for the Honda that I just knew my folks had purchased for me.

Some dreams did come true. Long before the movie "A Christmas Story" turned the Daisy Red Ryder BB gun "with a compass in the stock, and this thing which tells time" into a household name, I was having dreams of my own Daisy BB gun.

I lived in Tennessee during a time when a boy walking to the creek with a bb gun did not elicit panicked calls to 911. In fact, it was an expected rite of passage.

I no longer remember the circumstances, but I am sure I probably pestered my folks about getting the BB gun for some time. One morning as my dad tried to rouse me from undoubtedly another dream of adventure by shaking a tube of brand new Daisy BBs in my ear...with not a great deal of success.

When I did wake up, he had for me my very own BB gun. I was enraptured. I know he told me about safety and not to shoot at the birds. Our little town was a bird sanctuary and boys with BB guns were not allowed to pick them off at will - clearly an infringement of my rights as an 11 year old. But most of the instruction was shouted down by my excitement. I quickly dressed and prepared for my first East Ridge, Tennessee safari.

That first day, the only danger was to paper bullseyes. Later however, a blue jay that I felt was bullying the smaller birds at the backyard feeder paid the price for his indiscretions, courtesy of my new-found marksmanship.

I really only had intended to scare him off; I aimed high to hit the tree behind him, but my experience in working ballistics was pretty slim. Predictably, aiming high allowed me to execute a perfect kill shot.

I was horrified as the jay fell from the feeder. I knew I had broken my dad's instruction and the city law. Perhaps it was then that I began wrestling with the philosophical paradox of hunting: loving the animals but also loving to hunt. Such thoughts are difficult to reconcile for a child - indeed they are difficult for an adult.

In an episode entitled "Opie The Birdman" from the old television program "The Andy Griffith Show", Andy's son Opie was the proud owner of a new slingshot. Andy warned Opie to be careful with his new weapon (sound familiar?). Opie was practicing with his slingshot when his gaze fell upon a bird in a tree - he let go the stone and the bird fell dead. The bird was a mama, with three hatchlings in a nest just outside of Opie's bedroom window.

Once the sin was uncovered, Andy made Opie sit and listen to the three baby birds chirping for their mother - made more poignant because Opie had no mother.

Opie decides to adopt the baby birds and raised them in a cage in his room. He named them Winkin, Blinkin, and Nod. The day comes that the birds have grown and Opie releases them one by one. Opie comments "that cage sure looks empty" to which Andy responds "yes, but but don't the trees seem full"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8BMjtwp8n6A

There are many things about this story that resonate with me. Like Opie I unintentionally killed a bird. I am approaching being an empty-nester, watching my children and step children fly out into the world, leaving our home quieter and emptier.

I am also a conservationist. I invest a good deal of time working to conserve our natural resources. I do that through my connections with nature as a hunter, angler, and Trout Unlimited officer. Yes, sometimes I harvest game and fish - but my desire is to do so in a way that leaves our streams and trees - nice and full.

Thanks Andy -

At Issue: On The Water

2011-03-28T18:25:00.003-05:00

The following article ran today in the New Braunfels Herald-Zeitung ( http://herald-zeitung.com ) in a special insert on water issues. I was invited to offer my views from the perspective of a fly-fisher and in my capacity with Guadalupe River Trout Unlimited.

*****

Clean water is the most precious yet most undervalued natural commodity on earth. Where it exists, so does life; where it is scarce, life is difficult and rare.

We in Texas understand this well, where the saying "whiskey is for drinking, and water is for fighting" summarizes the sentiments of many where water issues are concerned.

In south Texas near the Edwards aquifer, we live in a region of flood and drought. It isn't uncommon to endure summer months with temperatures breaching the 100 - degree mark with little rain for weeks or even months. Then with the advent of a single tropical weather system we may witness ravaging floods that may dump over 35 inches of rain in a matter of hours, as in the flood of 2002.

Because of our dependence on water for survival, humanity has employed ingenuity to strive for equilibrium in both demand and supply of clean water. While we do not control the weather, we have employed systems to protect property and people from catastrophic flooding, and store excess rainfall against those inevitable times of drought.

One result of this need to manage water resources in our region led to the construction of Canyon dam on the Guadalupe River in 1958 by the US Army Corps of Engineers. The two main stated purposes of this dam are flood control and water conservation.

Texas Parks and Wildlife officials realized that the dam would displace a historical warm water fishery immediately downstream of the dam. Outflows from the dam are taken from the bottom of the lake, and water temperatures are too cold for our native fish species to thrive. Biologists sought to replace the loss of the warm water species and the recreational opportunities they provided with another type of fishery. They knew of successes by fishery managers in other southern states from the introduction of trout into the cold tailwaters (the waters just downstream of a dam).

Armed with that knowledge and the financial assistance of Lone Star Brewery, the first stocking of trout in the Guadalupe tailwaters occurred in the late 1960s. This set in motion the formation of the Guadalupe River chapter of Trout Unlimited (www.GRTU.org), which has become the largest chapter in the nation, with nearly 4,500 members.

The Guadalupe River holds the distinction of being the southernmost trout fishery in the United Sates, and has gained international acclaim when it was named one of America's top 100 trout streams. The trophy trout zone has been responsible for several television segments over the last few years, and two state records for rainbow trout just this season.

Most of the fishing for trout here occurs in the winter months, supplying critical revenue for businesses in the New Braunfels area. Trout fishers spend money on hotels, restaurants, grocery and retail stores, auto rentals, fuel, and sporting goods during what is considered "off season" for river oriented businesses.

In the forty-odd years since that first stocking of trout in the Guadalupe River, much in our region has changed. Explosive population growth has increased the demand on limited water supplies, and on those charged with management of our water.

One of those demands is for reasonable and scientifically based sustained flows of cold, clean water during the hot months of summer. While these flows delight those who enjoy tubing and kayaking on the Guadalupe, they have additional crucial benefits. The immediate benefit is providing the cold water needed for trout to survive the summer. With proper handling of trout when caught, and practicing catch and release of these beautiful fish, the goal of a sustainable year-round trout fishery that we can all enjoy is an achievable reality.

Additionally, sustainable flows supply critical freshwater inflows into the bays and estuaries on our coast which benefit many species of wildlife, including endangered Whooping Cranes.

Through an agreement between the Guadalupe River chapter of Trout Unlimited and the Guadalupe-Blanco River Authority, those critical flows are in place providing recreation opportunities and protecting healthy ecosystems for many species of insects, plants, fish, animals and birds all the way to the coast.

Our future is tightly bound to our wise use of water. A balance for all affected parties is achievable with wise science based decisions. Protecting, restoring, and sustaining this unique river does more than provide us with opportunities to enjoy nature. It quite literally protects, restores, and sustains us.

Mark Dillow is the chapter president of Guadalupe River Trout Unlimited (www,grtu.org)

That Sinking Feeling (Or, of Friends and Pickle Buckets)

2011-03-16T23:25:00.000-05:00

You know the feeling...the one that lurks in the back of your mind; not quite a conscious thought, but not quite autonomic either. But it's there, robbing sleep and causing you to be on edge.

Such was my lot on a spring weekend not so many years ago. I planned a great weekend away with my daughters, a couple of their friends, my wife to be, and her boys. I rented a nice lakeside condo recommended to me by a co-worker, and planned a weekend of fishing, cookouts, and jet skiing.

To be ready for the fishing, which I planned to do very early in the mornings ~~from 6AM till noon~~ before everyone else rose for the day, preparations began weeks in advance. I took my boat to the shop and had them get the engine in the best shape ever. I sorted tackle, put new line on rods, and made sure everything was ship shape.

We arrived at our lodging for the weekend. The kids scattered to check out the dock and the water. After unloading the luggage, I took the boat about a quarter of a mile up the road to the boat ramp. Our condo came with a boat slip, but due to the location of the building (atop a cliff), boats had to launch at a public ramp. It was here that the nagging sinking feeling began.

Perhaps it was the ramp. It was pretty steep, and cut into the bank such that the truck sat about 7 feet below ground level when backed down to the water. Claustrophobic. Maybe it was the fact that the boat launch seemed empty. Shaking off my worries, I launched the boat and motored out of the marina. The old Bass Tracker never ran more smoothly. There is something about a boat jumping up on plane that makes me smile; especially so when the water is like glass like that day.

I tied up at my slip, and loaded all my fishing gear in my boat bag to carry up the long flight of stairs to our home for the weekend. The nagging at the corners of my mind was still there, but more faintly as family fun ensued.

At dawn the next morning, I quietly sneaked out of the condo. My gear was on the back porch. I looked down the cliff at the covered boat slip, and something looked odd.

The feeling in my mind got stronger, as I strained to see what was out of place...My slip was the second one on the left...

Well - I guess that explained the feeling...

But how in the world did it happen? We had no storms or rough water of any kind. I made sure the plug was in the boat, so that wasn't the culprit.

I could see the batteries hanging underwater by their cables, and oddly the bilge pump was running.

Some new friends also staying at our condos helped me secure a come-along to one of the back cleats. This allowed me to winch the boat upright, but now it was full of water and just below the waterline.

We called some old friends who own a lovely Irish restaurant (the are the real deal - first generation Irish Americans) about 10 miles away. They came with empty 5 gallon pickle buckets and helped bail out the boat so the bilge could pump the rest of the water out. I kept a vigil all night. Water kept coming in, but I could not tell from where. Fortunately the batteries were new, and between the onboard recharger and a long power cord, we made it through the night.

In the morning, I pulled the spark plugs and cranked the outboard to blow the water out of the cylinders. That accomplished, I used the trolling motor to creep back to the marina, not knowing if the batteries would have enough power to get me there, or if I would sink in the process.

Fortunately I did make it, after having to stop a couple times to rest the batteries. Later I found the problem. I apparently sheared off a couple of rivets on the bottom of the boat, presumably on some rocks. It was equivalent to having a couple of .22 rounds shot through the hull. The leaks were fairly small, so on a trip on the lake of a few hours, not a great deal of water accumulated But when I left the boat overnight in the slip, the water had its way.

Fortunately after some TLC by my mechanic, the Tracker was once again serviceable and we had many more adventures in it - and I never again had that sinking feeling.

Saturday Mourning

2011-02-07T19:56:00.000-06:00

The night had been unusually frigid. Along the canyon overhangs where springs normally seep, icicles had grown to resemble crystalline stalactites. The sun shone brightly and the temperature grudgingly inched upward. Occasionally a large chunk of ice detached from the canyon wall and crashed to the riverbank below. Each time it did my heart lurched.

I stood in the edge of the current, eyes intensely watching for telltale signs of nearly invisible trout; a movement of a tail or the white flash of a mouth as they fed. Icy water pushed against my waders, creating whirlpools and eddies around me. The cold kept many from the river that morning, allowing me respite from conversation. I was thankful that I didn't have to muster the energy to be friendly. I was finally able to have some peace: to segregate myself from a world that is a cacophony of sound and high tech leashes.

I fell into a rhythm of casting, drifting my flies along a current seam, and recasting. I was covering the water, my body taking over the task at hand without the aid of conscious thought. From time to time my strike indicator would twitch and with a lift of the rod, I felt the electricity of life at the end of my line. It brought some satisfaction, that I had unlocked the puzzle of where the fish were and what they wanted, but it did not bring joy.

The last time I was here was with a friend. It had been some months ago, and busy-ness had kept me from meeting him again until today. Much had changed since that day. We had a parting of ways

I had learned much about this river from him.Though we used to live in the same town decades ago in another state, it was here hundreds of miles away that our paths finally converged and we became friends. Every trip I took to the river would begin or end at his house. It was our routine.

I moved to the stretch of water where we had last spoken. It was the same as it had been before, yet somehow different. Colors were flat and two dimensional. Sounds were tinny, like an old AM radio station. The richness that once was here seemed muted. Perhaps it was the cold. More likely it was because we had not spoken for some time. Yet I knew he was here. I had avoided this area because it meant I would have to face him - and talk to him.

Instead, I just sat there with him. I spoke no words. We no longer needed to speak to communicate. I watched the river that flowed by me and over him, in the place where his sons spread his ashes while we who were left behind looked on with tight throats. He had truly become part of this river that had provided him his living, his joy, and where we both had been baptized in more ways than one.

Our ways had been parted by the curse of sickness and disease - but he is on the same path as I. He has for now just taken a higher road. My path will again converge with his someday. But for today, I wrestle anew with the emptiness created by his absence.

In memory of Bill Higdon

Closing Day

2011-01-27T16:19:00.001-06:00

It felt like a duty - a responsibility to be here on the last day of the season. To finish what I started.

Repetitions earlier in the fall allowed me to hone my routine so that I knew what to expect. Where to park the truck. What to include in my day pack. Where the deer would come from, if they came. How the wind would rock the tree.

Bushes that mimic deer shapes in the primordial ooze of pre-dawn caused my pulse to race on opening day; but no longer. I know them for what they are.

A sentinel. Silent. Watching. Taut. Anticipating the spreading rays of dawn and the game that it may bring. Dreading the western slide of the sun which signal not only the end of the day, but the end of my first season with a bow.

Two does approach my stand and tease me. I draw my bow once; twice; three times in anticipation of them stepping into the clearing. My muscles quiver holding the bow at full draw. Their eyes are on me but they do not see me. Trees block their vitals, and I let the arrow down. They prance away sensing something, but not spooked. We will dance no more this year.

My mood is solemn as I descend the tree. Alone I trudge to where the truck awaits. Opening day is seven long months away.

Musings for the New Year

2010-12-28T16:22:00.002-06:00

I tend to eschew New Year's resolutions...in fact I honestly cannot recall ever making any. Perhaps it's my bent towards pragmatism. Or it could be the realization that very little of my life is actually within my control; therefore it seems pretentious to make resolutions.

The thing I appreciate about the tradition of making resolutions is that it is a uniquely human demonstration of hope. Hope that things can change for the better. We intuitively know that hope is essential.

While I shy away from "resolutions", I can relate to goals. They can help guide decisions, sacrifices, and are milestones for progress. If a goal is not achieved by the end of the year, value can be ascribed from the effort. Semantics? Maybe.

That said, I have come up with a few goals for the coming year:

Add at least 1 native fish to my species caught
Add at least 2 new rivers fished
Keep my fly box fully stocked with flies from my own vise
Submit articles for publication to 2 national magazines or ezines
Arrow a mature buck
Learn to spey cast
See Yellowstone or Yosemite
Serve on my local Trout Unlimited board of directors with distinction ( I am the acting president of the Guadalupe River chapter)
Learn how to use Photo Shop
Get my "followers" numbers above 25
Celebrate another anniversary with my bride

Stay tuned gentle reader for...the rest of the story (with apologies to Paul Harvey)

My Christmas Wish List

2010-12-14T10:22:00.000-06:00

My pals over at The Outdoor Blogger Network suggested that we should come up with our ultimate outdoor Christmas wish list...so here is my attempt.

I know it runs counter to culture and expectations, but as I have grown older, my desire to receive Christmas gifts has diminished. In part because I have to find someplace to store them all, and if they are related to my outdoor pursuits, I am a bit hard to buy for because I tend to go out any buy exactly what I ~~want.~~ need. Telling a loved one exactly what I want for my outdoor passions tends to take some of the fun out of it for both parties in that there is little room for surprise (Oh my, a Ross reel? How did you know?), and usually my tastes are a bit more expensive than what I would be comfortable asking someone else to spend on me for a gift. There are however a few exceptions.

Of course there is that whole "it is better to give than receive" thing, which as a 12 year old sounds ludicrous. But to a parent or a spouse, it makes all the sense in the world. There is nothing quite like the joy of giving to someone you love. Since it has been several ~~years~~ decades since I was 12, you understand the camp I now fall into.

However, I do have a few things I can share.

1. I have asked my family this year to contribute to World Vision in my name. World Vision is a Christian organization working to provide food, clean water, educational materials and other needs to children around the world. With a small gift we can prevent a child from going to bed hungry.

2. Eastern Rises...I have been waiting for this film since the Fly Fishing Film Tour was in Austin last spring. It finally is out, and I can't wait to get my hands on it. Santa...I practiced catch and release all year!

3. Tervis Tumblers These things are awesome, and come with real tied flies

4. Trail Cameras - 3 or four would be nice, to find out where the game is on my lease

5. Pop Up Blind - For those days when a tree stand isn't practical

6. A trip to the Keys for a salt slam (Tarpon, Permit, Bonefish)

7. My own hunting ranch (hey, I can dream can't I?)

8. When not at the ranch, I would like a cabin in Colorado...this one is on the market and we stayed in it a couple summers ago...owned by a friend of a friend. Near the headwaters of the Rio Grande, a gold medal trout stream there

9.A pack in archery hunt for Elk in New Mexico

10. African Safari - this is a 2 for one...a Christmas present that also is on my bucket list!

Those things said, my life is extremely blessed. I have a beautiful and loving wife, three grown kids who I am very proud of, two great stepsons, and a granddaughter that has me wrapped around her finger. I live in the greatest country in the world which allows me to pursue my outdoor passions. I have incredible friends who live life in very real and transparent ways with me and help me in my walk with Christ. I am healthy and have food on the table. And I already am a recipient of the greatest Christmas gift of all, the gift of forgiveness of all of my mistakes and the promise of eternal life by the birth, death, and resurrection of Jesus. Who could really ask for more?

First Blood

2010-11-19T00:01:00.000-06:00

Omens for a successful hunt abounded last Saturday. A cold front swept in from the Texas panhandle dropping five inches of snow in Amarillo. While the snow didn't come anywhere near my lease in the Hill Country of Texas, the chilled air did, making me thankful for my two layers of fleece.

The moon was but a quarter - another promising sign. Deer probably had not been out all night feeding, especially with the strong northwest winds. I rose at 3 A.M. without benefit of an alarm, and in my haste to leave the house, forgot the camera. This too I took as a good sign, hoping the hunting gods would take the omission as as a sign of humility.

After the hour long drive to the ranch, I hiked to the live oak grove that hid my two tree stands. I noted the wind direction and climbed sixteen feet into the tree stand that took best advantage of the strong wind. I settled in and pulled my bow up on the parachute cord to which it was tethered. I nocked an arrow and wished for a seatbelt as the breeze caused my platform to sway just a little more than comfort allowed.

Soon the gale abated, and I readied myself for the chariot of Helios to light the eastern horizon on his arc across the sky. My eyes strained at any movement, real or imagined, hoping for a chance at my first deer.

Thirty minutes after sunrise I caught a glimpse of a ten point buck headed straight for my stand. He was so close that I had only seconds to draw and shoot before he was beneath me. I put the pin of my sight behind his shoulder and at twelve yards touched the release. I heard the arrow smack home.

The buck turned and walked casually away, cautious but not spooked. Could I have missed at that distance? Indeed, the arrow stood mocking me, stuck in the ground, with no blood to be seen on it. As I replayed the shot in my mind, I realized that I failed to use the peep sight at all, so intent was I on the buck. To say I was crestfallen is quite an understatement

I decided to continue to hunt. Shortly after a yearling doe ambled toward the feeder with no fear. I had no intent of taking this young deer, but I practiced drawing silently as she grazed. As I let the arrow down, she caught a noise or movement and walked quickly away.

It was now 8:37, and more movement to my right caught my eye. A seven point buck came toward the grove.This time, I told myself, be slow and deliberate. Use the peep and get a good sight picture before releasing the arrow. Breathe.

The buck meandered to a perfect spot and turned broadside as if on cue. I drew the bow without a tremor of buck fever. In a moment the arrow was away, its flight straight, its mark true. The deer ran like it had been shot from a cannon into the oak and cedar woods. My watch read 8:39, and I was oddly calm.

Thirty minutes labored by, and I climbed down from the stand. The blood trail betrayed the buck's escape route. Now my knees began to tremble inexplicably. I began to fear that I would not recover him in the tangle of living and dead juniper.

I tracked slowly, catching a few drops of blood on bluestem grass here, a bit more on the flat limestone there. Forty yards later, I saw the buck. I stood for several minutes looking at its motionless form, taking in what I had done. Even in death his powerful form and graceful lines gave honor to the Creator.

There was no fist-pumping or shouting - rather a humbled whisper of prayer in apology and thanks. Solemnity in a cathedral of oaks and cedars on land that once was the domain of Comanches. This buck, descended from the herds that fed those warriors, would this night feed my family.

Frozen In Time

2010-11-11T14:45:00.002-06:00

This Blog entry is my submission to the Sportsman Channel and Outdoor Blogger Network writing contest.

The glare of red and blue flashing lights on the icy windshield were garish inside the truck, like a movie scene of a submarine dodging depth charges. As traffic crawled along the interstate, heads swiveled toward the reason for the delay. Below the overpass was an overturned car surrounded by police and rescue workers; a victim of black ice.

My hands involuntarily tightened their grip on the steering wheel. I was only a couple of hours into the cruel reality of a twenty-two hour drive at the helm of an aging Suburban. The night was frigid and black as sin; I wondered if dawn’s light would find us further north on our journey, or inverted like the hapless family below.

Weeks of planning came down to a collision between my will to be at the home place for Christmas, and a winter storm system that was barreling into Texas. My young family was sleeping soundly in the back of the truck, and grandpa snored softly in the front seat next to me. He was there to make sure I didn’t fall asleep at the wheel.

The spitting rain driven by shrieking north winds froze thicker on highway overpasses as the night wore on. Was I on a fool’s errand? There was no money for a hotel room should the storm release its full fury and block the highway. A night spent in the truck along the road would be miserable at best; potentially deadly at worst.

I kept my nose pointed north and prayed in my Detroit - built foxhole.

My memory of the following hours is hazy. Providence prevailed and we arrived at our intended destination, fueled by No Doz and Mountain Dew. It was bitterly cold as only the Midwest can be, but thankfully the roads north of Oklahoma were devoid of snow and ice.

Mom’s small kitchen was warm, with smells of the season emanating from the stove. We fell into the ritual of catching up. These were the days before email and Facebook, and frequent long distance phone calls were relegated to higher pay grades than mine.

After the table was cleared and dishes put away, I began to scheme about how to do some pheasant hunting while I was home. It had been a several years since I had been able to chase pheasants with my father. Military service, babies and the loss of some of our family farms derailed earlier plans.

Memories of earlier times afield with dad are frozen in time in my memory; a slide show that only I can play. Pictures never captured through the lens of a camera are burned onto the film of my mind.

There was the first trip afield when I was allowed to carry a shotgun and hunt pheasants at my mother’s home farm. We were there for my grandfather’s funeral. A blizzard the night before we were to return home shut everything down, stranding us at the farm. This was a dream come true for me as the unplanned hunt unfolded in a winter wonderland. I vividly recall the first pheasant I ever shot. I can still see it silhouetted against the excruciatingly blue Iowa sky as I stood amid the silent sentinels of uncut cornstalks. The mix of guilt and exhilaration at taking its life is a paradox I still experience with each successful hunt.

There was another time on my uncle’s farm when I missed a shot on a flushing bird. My gun jammed as I tried to pump a fresh round into the chamber. Paper shells tended to swell, you see. Dad gave me the first shot, but that allowed the bird to fly beneath a tree that had fallen into the branches of another, creating a lean-to thirty yards away. Dad dropped to one knee to get a better angle, and folded the bird under the tree an instant before it made good its escape. My frozen breath hung in the air, and I stood astonished as I took in what just happened. The scene is as fresh thirty years later as if it were yesterday.

That hunt had been ten years prior to this season. I had matured, growing stronger and more confident. I wanted to go afield again with dad to make more of those memories. We decided to hunt Christmas day.

As fate would have it, Christmas eve brought ten inches of snow. Our hunting plans had to be changed due to the weather, so we decided to hunt public land nearby rather than making the four hour drive to the family farm.

We layered on clothes and loaded the trunk with shotguns and shells. The cold was intense. Each breath tingled as our lungs tried to warm the air. The snow in the drive squeaked with each step; the neighborhood was still and silent. No one stirred at this early hour.

We drove to the land dad knew about. No other tire tracks violated the purity of the blanket of white as we pulled into the parking area.

We began to hunt, and we began to freeze. We pushed through snow banks and briars alert with the tension that always accompanies the first part of any hunt. I noticed that dad moved a little slower than I remembered; or was it that I moved a little faster?

We heard no sounds, and saw no game. No triggers were pulled; no feathers were gathered.

Neither of us knew at the time that this would be our last pheasant hunt together. A job change moved my folks to Tennessee, making pheasant hunts nearly impossible.

I can still see my father that day; his face and nose red from the cold. He hunting on my left as he always did; his knit cap pulled low over his ears and his Wingmaster in the crook of his arm. Eyes alert, scanning for hidden or running birds. Yet another image of a man I love and admire – frozen in time.

Who's Your Daddy?

2010-11-09T16:00:00.000-06:00

In older times, the tradition of handing down manly skills was largely accomplished from father to son. How to tune up an engine, grill steaks, tie a double-Windsor knot, and open doors for ladies are but a few that come to mind. We learned by watching our fathers and listening to their instruction and correction.

My father certainly was my instructor for those things and more. He introduced me to fishing and hunting, and the moral choices faced by participating in those pursuits. Those days afield with him are among my most treasured memories. They continue to fuel my passions and guide my choices to this day.

But as I look at the skills and interests I now have specifically concerning outdoor pursuits, I find that I have additional fathers.

In his book "Fathered By God", author John Eldredge recounts his attempts to become a fly fisher; a story that resonates with me on a visceral level.

Eldredge's father taught him to fish, but he did not fly fish. Living in Colorado, John always wanted to take up the quiet sport, so as an adult in the information age. he did what I did. He turned to books and the internet to learn all he could on casting, fly selection, and reading the water. Having assembled book knowledge and equipment, the author set out for the river.

Eldredge waded in and began to cast, but was unable to catch even a single fish. Downstream, another fly fisher seemed to hook a trout on every cast.

Humbled, Eldredge left the stream. At a respectable distance, he sat to observe the master fly fisher. It turned out that the master was a guide on his day off . He invited John to share his water, gave him the right flies, and made sure he caught a few fish. Eldredge was "fathered" or mentored in an outdoor art by a stranger.

My own journey is a similar. My dad didn't teach me to hunt waterfowl, bow hunt or fly fish. because those were not activities he pursued. He planted the seed that lead me to those passions. I desired to become those things, so I read, researched, and in turn was also fathered by men (and even a woman or two) along the way.

I also have fathers whom I never met; but I hear know them - I hear their voices in the words they left behind. Authors who instructed me in ethics, like Aldo Leopold; entertained me like John Gierach and Gene Hill. Still others who gave me glimpses into times past like Norman Maclean, Gordon MacQuarrie, Robert Ruark, and Roderick L. Haig Brown.

To this day, if I do not re-read MacQuarrie's Old Duck Hunters trilogy (which is not only about ducks, but trout, deer, bears, partridge, and a warm relationship between a man and his father in law) before hunting season begins, I feel as though I have missed a significant part of my personal tradition...like Thanksgiving without smoked turkey.

Voices of the past guide me; a great cloud of witnesses accompanies me on my quests. I carry with me experiences and memories that are mine not only experientially, but also vicariously.

When I am gathered to my fathers, will I leave such a legacy so my children, and to those who come after that? Selah.

Sticks and Strings

2010-10-26T08:17:00.001-05:00

Much of my free time, if there is such a thing these days, is taken up in the pursuit of the outdoors. If truth were told, fly fishing is my main passion for much of the year. I am fortunate to live in a place where I can enjoy piscatorial pursuits perennially (I know...too much caffeine today).

However, I also like to hunt. In Texas most of the land is privately owned, and while there are some public hunting opportunities to be found, most hunting access is acquired through leases. Leases tend to be expensive, and the properties run the gamut from family ranches to commercial hunting operations, some with wildlife biologists who are employed to help manage the deer herd to produce world class trophy animals.

During my youth, we never hunted deer. Our game was mainly pheasants, with a smattering of rabbits, quail and squirrels tossed in when handy.

We had access to hunt farms owned by my family, but three decades ago deer hunting in Iowa was not a big deal. Thus my experiences hunting deer were basically non-existent.

Pheasant hunting in Texas exists, mainly in the panhandle, an eight hour drive from home. So in the last decade or two, I became a waterfowl hunter, with the obligatory dove hunts to kick off the season.

This year however, something of an outdoor harmonic convergence occurred. I was invited to join a lease that is both reasonable in price and not too far from home. And leases in Texas are mainly about deer.

This gave me the opportunity to dive in to bow hunting, something I had long desired to do. In our state the bow season begins in October, a full month before the gun hunters enter the fray.

I began looking for a good used bow, and after one false start I was able to find a great bow at an equally great price. Some adjustments to the bow were needed it to fit me, and once completed, I began shooting most evenings in my backyard to get ready for the season.

I like accouterments, and both my fly fishing and bow hunting passions allow me to peruse through a plethora of catalogs of stuff. Arrows, quivers, releases, arrow rests, vibration dampeners, broad heads, scent control products, targets, blinds, etc. All require decisions to be made. Stands, feeders, attractants, stand locations and clothing all need to be considered as well. It's a gear junkies' dream.

It is noteworthy that both fly fishing and bow hunting devotees delight in getting close to the game. The methods used are not necessarily the most efficient for harvesting said game, but therein lies the attraction. We do it, to plagiarize JFK, "not because it is easy, but because it is hard".

It may sound cliche, but for me, climbing up in a tree in the pre-dawn to watch the sun rise and to sit silently while nature awakens oblivious to my presence is a joy only few souls experience. Harvesting a deer, while the presumably the purpose for my presence does not define a successful hunt. Time alone to think; to listen, to look, to feel - to live. Knowing that even if I do take a shot, the air will not be rent with a sonic boom, alerting the world to my presence - but with the marriage of a stick and string and a quiet thwip as I send the arrow home.

Time will tell if my efforts put meat in the freezer, but already the journey has fed my soul.

Birdy....

2010-10-18T16:25:00.000-05:00

On the Saturday before Father's Day, a small Christian sportsman's group I belong to sponsored a sporting clays shoot for dads and their kids. We had a pretty good turn out, having banked on the fact that dads who share custody of thier kids would likely have them on that weekend.

We actually had a better turn out in some ways than we expected. I have a friend who is a single mom to a young junior high boy, who allowed him to come to our shoot. It was the first time he had ever fired a shotgun at a clay target, and with a little coaching he was doing well enough and had a great time.

"When are y'all going hunting, cause I want to go!" My young friend is long on exuberance and short on due process. I informed him that our state requires passing a hunter's education class, then purchasing a hunting license in order to hunt. And to hunt with us, his mom had to approve. I provided all the info, and let things marinate a while. We had an upcoming dove hunt, and so I nudged things along by using that as a deadline.

Zack completed the hunter education class (which has been responsible for a significant reduction in hunting related accidents since its inception), bought his license, and was waiting when I showed up on Saturday morning at 4:30 AM. Early wake up calls are a good litmus test for the desire to hunt in my experience.

Another friend provided some camo clothing to get Zack in the swing of things, and I provided the shotgun and shells, and a few other necessities like breakfast at Whataburger.

We got to the ranch and took up postions that in traditional fly zones on this property.

For the next hour the conversation went like this...
Zack - "Is that a dove?"
Me - "Nope. That's a barn swallow"
Zack - "There's a dove!"
Me - "No, actually that is a scissortail flycatcher"
Zack - "Ok that has to be a dove."
Me - "Nope, sorry. Those are meadowlarks. But don't feel bad, Governor Bush shot one once by mistake thinking it was a dove."

After coming to the realization that doves just weren't flying much this day, we moved closer to a large tank(for you non-Texans, that's a stock pond or small lake). Doves were still scarce, but we saw an opportunity to rid the tank of a few snapping turtles. As I had Zack get ready to shoot a snapper, I saw a squadron of white winged doves headed toward us from our left.

I yelled for Zack to get ready and shoot when the doves got close.
Ladies and gentlemen, we have a hunter.

I think he knows what doves look like now. :-)

Obsession

2010-10-14T14:30:00.000-05:00

There is a well known outdoors related business who uses the phrase “It’s not a passion; it’s an obsession” to describe their dedication to the hunting lifestyle and the pursuit of creating the best products they can for their customers.

The dictionary defines obsession as follows: “the domination of one's thoughts or feelings by a persistent idea, image, desire, etc.”

Obsession, as defined by our culture, is a bit darker than the dictionary defines it. Anyone who recalls the movie “Fatal Attraction” instantly recalls the gut level reaction to the obsession portrayed there.

Then there are the countless stories about obsessed fans stalking the objects of their affections. Recall the case of John Hinckley Jr., who attempted to assassinate a President Ronald Reagan to earn the attention of actress Jodie Foster.

For all of its dark implications though, is there perhaps a redeeming quality in obsession? To the artist, it can be the catalyst to a masterpiece. To the business owner, it can be the secret to financial independence. To the coach, it is a championship season. Obsession can therefore, describe someone of singular focus, pursuing their definition of success.

Recently my wife was asked to describe me in a single word. The word she used was "obsessed"; especially as it relates to the outdoors. I admit I was taken aback. Perhaps this was a wakeup call.

If a man were to be described as obsessed with his family, or his wife, or his God, wouldn’t that be a desirable trait? Indeed, I would be proud to be described in those terms.

But to be obsessed with the outdoors? Admittedly I am passionate about the outdoors. I love to fish, hunt, camp, plant gardens, photograph, and just be in the outdoors. I love to watch the sunrise and set. I am awed by violent storms and am beset by wonder at the intricacies of the web of life. The change in seasons is a wonder to me, and I anticipate them with great joy. I love to look at the night sky and marvel at the galaxies. I crave the stark beauty of the mountains, and in their shadow my soul is restored and enriched.

I volunteer time as an officer for Trout Unlimited, and a local Christian hunting club. I clean up my home river, help stock it with fish, and work to protect it on the ground and through the legislative process. I spend hundreds of hours a year in those efforts; in fact more hours than I spend actually hunting and fishing by far.

Part of my passion for nature comes from the recognition that all of creation is a reflection of the Creator, and it speaks to His creativity, His love, and His provision. When I enjoy the creation, I commune with and worship the Creator. It has been a part of who I am for as long as I remember.

So I struggle a bit with the moniker of obsession. I have to admit that it has caused me to re-examine where I am investing (as all good investors should) my time , to make sure that the returns for those investments are desireable.

Am I investing enough time with my family? With my friends and those I am in a position to influence? Are the returns such that they will outlive me?

I confess that I don’t know the answer yet. But the quest continues.

Redemption

2010-08-02T16:27:00.001-05:00

In the life of the outdoorsman, there are days spent afield or in the stream that are epic. The ducks pour into the marsh right in front of your blind; a buck steps from behind the oak exactly where you expected him to, offering a perfect broadside shot. You hit the river just as the hatch begins and you have the right fly to offer as trout boil the water, taking your imitation time and again. Such days are long remembered, for they are quite rare.

More often, the days outdoors are middling, offering just enough adventure and reward to justify the continued anticipation of the next trip. Some days are better than others, but most are…average.

On the average days, if you are in my company, you may hear me utter such sage phrases as “well, that’s why they call it fishing, not catching”, or “it’s just great to be out here even if the deer aren’t moving”. Sometimes it’s true, but mostly we want results. We are not very patient when it comes to the pursuit of game.

Perhaps it is tied to our performance oriented society, where everything is measured, analyzed and optimized for efficiency. But I suspect the real reason is deeper in our psyche, tied to our need to demonstrate value and the ability to provide.

Regardless of the cause, I don’t like to spend a day fishing and not catching, though I have done it quite a bit. I joke with friends that I am a conservationist, taking up room on the river that a real fisherman might be using to wreak havoc on the local piscatorial population. But the joke is a weak attempt to cover a strong competitive streak I loathe to reveal.

Recently, two friends and I planned to spend some time trout fishing our local river over a three day weekend. I didn’t hold out much hope for the trip, as I knew the river would be crowded with beer soaked and sun burned tubers. But I knew the water would be cool and the fish would be there. Perhaps we could catch a few early before the tubers began their weekend migration downstream.

Our initial plan was to fish Sunday afternoon after church, and then come back for a second try at dawn on Monday. Gear was readied and placed by the front door to allow an early egress from the house.

Adding to my anticipation was that I was getting to baptize a new fly rod, one that I hoped would be full of trout mojo. Indeed its first cast yielded my first fish of the day; a fitting baptism indeed. I had to thread my trout through a few tubers, but we were able to get her in the net after a dash downstream about fifty yards. I added three more fish that day, and was satisfied with the average day we had on the water. I looked forward to the following day.

Sunday morning we were on the road at an un-human hour, but the effort was rewarded with the river all to ourselves. My companions began catching trout in rapid succession, and I expected that this was to be an epic day. And so it was.

Our river is a tailwater, and conventional wisdom is to fish nymphs, sub-surface flies that imitate immature life stages of aquatic insects. Dry fly fishing is almost unheard of, due to the lack of regular hatches on our river. But this day was epic. When a trout came up and hit my strike indicator, I yelled at my companion across the river to try a dry fly, and I pointed to where I had seen the fish. He already had a dry fly on, as he had just caught and released a fish he had seen rising; also a rare event on our river.

He hooked the trout I pointed out, and I helped net and photograph that fish…then several others. But none of them mine. In fact I hooked and lost four trout that day, two on dry flies. But not a single fish found my net that day.

Ordinarily I would have been slightly disturbed by the lack of success, and would have shrugged it off. Except this was an epic day; just not for me. My companions landed in excess of thirty trout, the smallest of which was sixteen inches, the largest twenty three. One of my friends caught eight or nine on dry flies, a feat which had the trout community here buzzing.

To add insult to injury, my friends were catching fish in spots I vacated moments before. I had no idea why. I tried to be happy for my friends, and I was. But my lack of success made it pretty hard for me to truly enjoy their epic day. I had not performed well.

I went home and went to the tying vise. I tied a few dozen flies of a pattern I had not tried before, in a size larger than normal. I also modified one of the other patterns to make it more attractive by adding some flash to the materials.

A month passed before I had the chance to get back to the river. My companions could not come, so I went alone. Doubts that had dogged my subconscious in the previous weeks followed me. Maybe I really didn’t know how to catch trout. Maybe I had lost some critical skill, or perhaps I had never possessed the skill in the first place. I was ready to get the skunk off me.

When I arrived at the river, a serpentine mist hung over the water. Not another person was to be found. It was quiet, and endeavoring to keep the peace I was careful to close the truck door with as little noise as possible. I heard the rush of clear cool water over the weir, and the call of a wood duck just over the cypress trees. It was beautiful.

Quickly I moved to the spot where I last faced defeat by these trout. I had to unlock the mystery of my failure; and I cast. Once, twice, thrice. On the fifth cast the strike indicator twitched and I struck; the electricity of life at the other end of the line jump started my heart’s lethargy. I fought the fish for a minute and lost it. Not a good omen.

I resume my cast, mend, and drift. Now a second fish was fast to my fly; this one finds my net. The barbless hook slips out with little effort. Without touching the fish, I release it into the slower water of an eddy to recover. The fish is beautifully colored; fat and healthy. Five others follow, and in the next hour I never went more than ten minutes without being hooked up.

I reeled in. I had barely been in the river equal to the time it had taken me to drive there. But I was satisfied. The skunk was off. Redemption had come.

It was epic.

Preparation

2010-07-30T16:11:00.001-05:00

“The mountains are calling and I must go.” John Muir

For those with the outdoors infused in their DNA, there is a not so secret joy derived from planning a wilderness trip. The joy tends to be proportional both to the distance and duration of the journey. Should the trip be to a storied location like the Rocky Mountains or Alaska, the pleasure from planning increases exponentially.

Perhaps it lies in the masculine affinity towards maps and fly rods; unfamiliar mountain streams and yet untraveled highways. There is an ancient drive to peer over the next ridge; to discover and explore; understand and conquer.

In my mind’s eye, I imagine the preparations that were undertaken when Lewis and Clark were commissioned by President Jefferson to map the lands gained through the Louisiana Purchase. What is difficult to comprehend from our modern comforts are the difficulties they expected and planned for in a land few white men had ever seen, and fewer had survived.

I am a beneficiary of their discoveries and hardships. I now can plan routes to my adventure destinations via satellite images and GPS coordinates. Well-drawn maps now exist that with minimal training a sixth grader can understand and follow. With a few clicks of a mouse I can find weather reports, fishing reports, and lodging recommendations. I can do in an evening what it must have taken Lewis and Clark months to do as they planned their journey.

The ease of access to information does not dull the anticipation. Rather, I find my anticipation enhanced, in the way herbs enhance the flavor of a meal.

Even now my desk is heaped over with the sinews of war. Road maps, topographical maps, magazines and books on fly tying threaten to overtake my futile efforts at organization. One would think that I was planning an invasion rather than a vacation.

I am a list maker, and true to form I have an ever-expanding series of checklists. There is one for each type of adventure trip I undertake. I have a mortal fear of forgetting some critical thing; perhaps born from the time I arrived at a hunting destination only to realize I had forgotten the key to the trigger lock for my shotgun.

My current list looks like a quartermaster’s nightmare. I need to spend some time combing through it, eliminating the redundant and double checking the critical. My list you see, is an attempt at control and consistency; comfort and sensibility.

Yet part of the draw of adventure is that I cannot plan for every contingency. I will be prudent in my planning so as not to be foolish in neglect, yet one of the goals for my trip is to encounter wildness. The facade of control that we comfort ourselves with under city street lights will be swept aside as I gaze at the starry firmament; mountains pushed up by the hands of the Almighty, and streams dug with his finger.

Deep down, control is something that I do not really want. For if my strength is all I have to depend on my plight is indeed pitiful. In the wild I am reminded that I do not have to go about in my own strength and wisdom, for it is finite and insufficient. But there is another who is infinite and sufficient, and I will meet with Him in the mountains.

Do you have an arm like God's, and can your voice thunder like his?

Can you bind the beautiful Pleiades? Can you loose the cords of Orion?

Can you bring forth the constellations in their seasons or lead out the Bear with its cubs?

Can you raise your voice to the clouds and cover yourself with a flood of water?

Do you send the lightning bolts on their way? Do they report to you, 'Here we are'?

Who endowed the heart with wisdom or gave understanding to the mind?

Who has the wisdom to count the clouds? Who can tip over the water jars of the heavens when the dust becomes hard and the clods of earth stick together?

Do you hunt the prey for the lioness and satisfy the hunger of the lions when they crouch in their dens or lie in wait in a thicket?

Who provides food for the raven when its young cry out to God and wander about for lack of food?

Does the hawk take flight by your wisdom and spread his wings toward the south?

Does the eagle soar at your command and build his nest on high?

He dwells on a cliff and stays there at night; a rocky crag is his stronghold.

- Job

Snakeproof

2010-06-18T18:40:00.000-05:00

A slow buzz filled the air as my sandal-clad foot stepped into the grass at the edge of the field. The buzz increased in speed dramatically with the second step, and the perfectly camouflaged head of a three-foot Western Diamondback rattlesnake lifted from its coils, causing an involuntary shudder to race through my nervous system.

As a lifelong outdoorsman, I have experienced several encounters with snakes. Usually the incidents ended with each of us travelling in opposite directions; neither of us much worse for wear. However I have never encountered a Western Diamondback fully coiled and rattling furiously in my travels until this day. And this day I was in shorts and sandals, poorly prepared for such a meeting.

In fact it was worse than that. Twenty yards away lay another rattler, under a cedar bush. And literally three feet away was a very active water moccasin with a copperhead just as close.

My wife was at my side, and normally I would have been looking for an escape route for her and a weapon of some sort for me. However this encounter was a bit different. We had stumbled upon a snake proofing class offered for dogs, being held at a local sporting goods store.

Dogs investigate their world primarily through their noses. When they detect the scent a snake, the natural response is to move in and stick their nose as close to the curious smell as possible. That type of encounter with a pit viper ends up as a painful and potentially deadly lesson for the dog.

Years ago, bird hunters who invested large sums of money and long hours of training in their dogs sought a way to keep their pointers and setters safe from snakebites. A training method of using de-fanged snakes and shock collars (called electronic collars or "e-collars" by the industry) was developed.

The training goes something like this: the trainer places de-fanged snakes in a field. An e-collar is placed on the pooch in training, and the owner leads the dog on leash into the field, usually downwind of the snake. When the dog notices the snake and moves in for a better sniff, the trainer hits the remote sending an uncomfortable shock to the dog through the collar.

While we watched, we saw a bouncy Golden Retriever go from loving the world one moment to trying to become the first dog in a self launched low earth orbit after an encounter with the collar. Usually only one application is needed, and customers are encouraged to bring dogs back annually to check to see if the lesson stuck. A couple of dogs we saw being rechecked remembered the lesson, and when they smelled the rattler, they tried to head in the opposite direction in a hurry.

Before my wife got any ideas about the potential of training a husband in such a manner, I suggested we head out to complete our errands.

An electronic collar, though temporarily painful, is a good corrective tool. The intent is to change bad behavior into good behavior for the benefit of the dog.

I have one of these e-collars at home that I used to train my Labrador. The remote has multiple settings that allow me to apply varying amounts of power to the collar. I noticed in snake proofing, the trainer used the remote's high power setting when training the dogs. The effect was both immediate and apparent to both the dog and any onlookers.

It reminded me of another corrective tool. 2Timothy 3:16-17 tells us that “All Scripture is God-breathed and is useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting and training in righteousness, so that the man of God may be thoroughly equipped for every good work.”

One of the ways to have scripture available to us is to memorize select passages. Most Christ followers know at least one or two verses, like John 3:16. While that is a wonderful verse, it doesn't apply in every situation. What if I was having trouble in my marriage and only had John 3:16 to apply to my situation? It's almost like the dog trainer having an e-collar remote with 15 power settings but only using the lowest setting. You may get some results, but only in certain situations.

But what if in addition to John 3:16 I also memorized Ephesians 5:25 which says "Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her."? Well, now maybe my remote can reach power level 2.

You know, sometimes things happen at work that make me worry. And as great as John 3:16 and Ephesians 5:25 are, they really don't help me a lot in those times. But if I memorized Philippians 4:6-7, I would know "Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. ⁷And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. Hey, power level 3!

Ok, so we are now well on our way to having full power with scripture, like the trainer had with his remote. But let me ask you; how effective would the remote have been, with all its power, if the trainer didn't apply it?

That's how we as Christ followers are sometimes. We have the power of scripture available to us, but do not apply it to our lives, allowing it to change us. It’s like the dog trainer ignoring the use of the powerful remote in his hands, and wishing that the dog would change its behavior. It doesn't work, and ultimately does nothing to change the dogs behavior in a way that protects it from a dangerous snake.

James says it this way, in the first chapter of his book beginning in verse 22, " Do not merely listen to the word, and so deceive yourselves. Do what it says. Anyone who listens to the word but does not do what it says is like a man who looks at his face in a mirror and, after looking at himself, goes away and immediately forgets what he looks like. But the man who looks intently into the perfect law that gives freedom, and continues to do this, not forgetting what he has heard, but doing it—he will be blessed in what he does.

Whether it is for our own correction and training, or for those whom we are entrusted to train and protect, why not commit today to hide scripture in your heart, allowing it to conform you to the image of Christ so that you "... may be thoroughly equipped for every good work."?

Hunting Bonefish 2010

2010-06-08T22:47:00.002-05:00

Make video montages at www.OneTrueMedia.com

The Moment

2010-04-30T23:46:00.001-05:00

Among the joys of a hunting or fishing trip is the planning and anticipation. From my youth, even the excitement that was generated by planning a hike in the woods was enough to have me bouncing off the walls for days. I suspect I am not alone in this.

I remember well my first backpacking trip to Southern Colorado for trout. There were weeks of planning, checklists and maps. Camping gear had to be purchased, and hiking boots were broken in. We planned meals, driving routes, and stops along the highway. Arrangements had to be made at home for care of pets, gardens, and yards, and of course we had to ask for time off from work.

Yet for all the planning for that trip, and indeed any trip I have undertaken, there is always a singular moment of perfection. That point of silent breathless discovery from the culmination of your plans and efforts. On this particular trip that moment occurred when the Rio Grande first came into view just downhill from the cabin that served as our base of operations for the week. This was not yet the big river of south Texas, wide and muddy. These were the headwaters of the Rio Grande; a blue ribbon trout stream with the majestic San Juan mountains shepherding the water south. A photo of me fishing that stretch of the stream adorns the dresser in my bedroom to this day.

Another time I took my maiden kayak fly fishing trip to the Lighthouse Lake trails near Port Aransas, Texas. I was new to fly fishing, newer to kayaks, and completely uninitiated with redfish. All of the stories I read, and plans I made resulted in "that moment" when a redfish slammed the little bronze popper and ran for the horizon, the drag on my reel screaming.

Those defining moments aren't only relegated to outdoor activities. I have been blessed to have taken part of a number of weddings in the last few years, and in fact I am participating in another next weekend. My favorite part of every wedding is the moment when the groom first gets a glimpse of his bride. I usually try to get a seat where I can see the groom's face just to see his reaction.

I remember another wedding four years ago when I wasn't able to see the groom's expression, for I was he.
My gaze was locked on the spot where my bride was to appear. Many prayers, hopes, plans, and dreams had culminated in that perfect moment, one that I will remember forever.
Happy Anniversary my bride!

Alone is Better Together

2010-03-14T21:53:00.001-05:00

I arrived at the boat ramp as mist spiraled away from dawn's first rays. The lake's surface was as calm as glass as I launched my boat. No one else was yet stirring on the water, which appeared as untouched as a virgin snowfall.

I turned the key and the motor cranked. Soon I had the boat on plane, running flat out toward the dam. It was mid October in Texas, and the weather was perfect. Bass were feeding heavily before winter, and it would be another two months before we had our first frost. The sun, now lazy, would warm the day into the mid-seventies.

I was on my own today, a rarity in my life. As a father and husband, taking a fishing trip alone was never an option for me. Now finally, I had my wish. A day on my own. No limits, no schedules, and no responsibilities.

At this stage in my life I had not yet taken up the cult of the fly rod. My weapons this day would be baitcast reels and spinnerbaits.

After a twenty minute run up the lake, I began fishing near docks and other structure that abounded in this arm of the lake. I picked up a few respectable fish here and there. I saw few anglers on the lake this day. Archery season was open for deer, thinning the numbers a bit on the water.

Helios drove his chariot across the sky, and soon lunch time was upon me. I used my trolling motor to slowly glide down the lake banks. Using an underhand cast which keeps the lure on a low trajectory, I was able to drop the spinnerbait on target with very little splash. I targeted a corner of a cement wall, thinking that the water there might still be warm from the solar rays it absorbed yesterday. In the cool of early fall, maybe it would be a comfortable place for a big bass to hang out.

And it was. The strike felt like I hooked a big bunch of moss. There was no head shake, just a dull resistance on the line. Then the line began to move off, and I knew I was into a large fish.

The battle was brief, and a seven pound largemouth was in the live well. It was definitely a high point of the day, but I had no witnesses. I headed down the lake once more, captain of my own destiny.

As the day wore on, I realized for the first time in my life that I had no reason to be home at a certain time. My house was empty; the kids were spending the weekend at their mom's new apartment. I still hadn't adjusted to a house without the sounds of my kids in it, and the thought of returning to a silent home that normally bustled with life held no joy for me.

So I fished until sunlight left the sky. Darkness fell, and still I fished, but there was no longer the enjoyment that there once was. Instead of being a hobby I pursued with passion, fishing became a crutch to fend off the crushing loneliness that waited at home.

A recently divorced man, I felt socially as awkward as a new born calf. Old friends were uncomfortable around me, and I them. I felt out of place everywhere except when alone on the water. The thing I longed for when life wouldn't allow it, time alone on the water, became a curse rather than a blessing; a reminder that I was a adrift.

Time passed, and life went on. Sometimes it seemed to go on without me, and other times I was able to catch up. I learned to fly fish, and with that new found skill found a whole new group of friends who were willing to share tips, flies, and pools on their favorite rivers.

Fly fishing, especially among those who prefer to fly fish for trout, is often eschewed as a quiet sport, best enjoyed in solitude along mountain streams. Certainly that can be the case. But I discovered my greatest enjoyment in fly fishing comes from the people that it brings me in contact with. We often start the day together but split up to fish certain sections of the river alone, perhaps to rejoin at the truck at noon. Sometimes we fish the entire day together, and both situations suit me just fine.

I have the opportunity this year to fish a place in Colorado on my own. No family will accompany me. My friends, though they will be nearby, will be hunting elk instead of fishing. As I contemplate the opportunity, I am waffling like John Kerry in a goose blind. I know that I will be fishing completely alone, perhaps for several days while camping in the San Juan mountains. It sounds like bliss one moment, and in the next brings back the pangs of loneliness from that earlier time in my life.

Are trophies caught and new sights observed as rewarding when not shared? For me the colors of such trophies and the grandeur of sweeping vistas may be muted when consumed alone. I submit that a life not shared is a life without flavor; it may nourish, but it does not enthrall.

Will I go it alone? Say tuned gentle reader, I haven't yet decided. But a line from an old country song echoes in my head; alone is much better together.

One In Ten Thousand

2010-02-04T10:55:00.000-06:00

A thin sheet of shaped aluminum separated me from the depths. Quiet strokes propelled me forward across water so clear that one could easily make out the bottom structure ten feet below. No other craft disturbed the surface of that glacial gouge during the afternoon respite.

No sound reached my ears other than the gentle rhythmic slap of small waves against my canoe. The lake…the world…was empty of humanity except for me.

Sun reflected off the ribs of the canoe; warm on my bare legs and shoulders. The old paddle, worn from exposure to the elements lay rough in my young hands.

I laid the paddle across my thighs and squinted against the mid-day glare. I took up the fiberglass fly rod borrowed from my father. A shadow on the floor of the lake gave away the hiding spot a loafing bass near the weed line. I stripped line and began to cast.

It was my personal summer of love; ten years removed from the more noted summer of 1967. I was sixteen, spending two weeks at a fish camp on a lake in the land of ten thousand lakes with my baseball coach and his family.

The camp was inhabited with other families who vacationed at this spot for the same two weeks for the past ten or fifteen years. As a result, the camp was like an extended family. Kids grew up seeing these same kids each summer, so our arrival at camp was like a family reunion.

This trip was consumed with two things I dreamt of often but knew little about…girls and smallmouth bass.

I knew a few things about both. I had looked at pictures and read magazines that were supposed to make me better at catching them. So far though, I had caught none.

I liked spending time watching them; they were elusive and mysterious. I knew some of the places they liked to frequent, and had some idea of things they liked to eat. I had but few lures with which to get their attention. Most of the time when I was able to catch their eye, I got so flustered that my attempts to connect with them were spurned. Some with a flip of a fin, some a flip of their hair.

Like most of us when we were young, my enthusiasm had not yet been tempered with experience, so I waded back in and made another cast.

The old bass popper never seemed to go far enough to get to the fish I was trying to catch. I had yet to learn how to really cast a fly, and it would be many years before I would try again. It would be yet a few years more before I became proficient at it. This day the fly splatted loudly about twenty feet from the canoe and spooked the bass.

It was a big lake and there were other fish. I tried another spot, and another. I replaced the fly with one of the few I had with me. None seemed to do the trick. But I persevered. When I next went to town I would have to buy better flies. Surely that was the solution.

At night, we kids gathered around the fire pit in front of the fish camp owner’s house and talked. We watched the stars come out; my God they were brilliant, far from the light pollution of the big city. We listened to the loons cry, lonesome and wavering as we walked along the lake shore.

Times seemed simpler then, in hindsight perhaps it was only me who was simple. There was this girl, and all I wanted to do was talk to her and hold her hand if only for a moment.

So I prepared for my cast. I only had a few lures, and precious little experience with them. I tried to be funny...she laughed, though I am not sure if it was from my humor or her pity. I cast again, this time trying to impress her; she moved closer as we walked.

The night was cold, even for the summer, for we were near the Canadian border. My hands were in my coat pockets, while my mind raced for what to do or say next. But I was out of flies…no more attractions to offer. Awkward silence followed; then her warm hand slipped into mine. I froze, not knowing what to do. So I just walked, filled with a hundred emotions and thoughts all at one time.

Soon our two weeks of vacation passed, and we said our goodbyes with promises to stay in touch. We corresponded every few days for a month or so. The letters came less often, until one day they came no more. An innocent summer romance slowly faded with time and distance. But I learned.

With new found confidence I began to cast again. Over the years I learned more about bass, and caught some. I learned more about women, caught some and lost all but one.

Sometimes, the lessons from that first summer of love come back to me, when all I need is to walk and talk, and hold a warm hand. To hear her laugh and move closer to me as we stroll; the one I will grow old with. My one in ten thousand.

You Sir, Are No Tom Selleck

2010-01-04T21:27:00.009-06:00

Only a week had passed since Port O'Conner took the brunt of a category 1 hurricane. As such storms go, this one had provided only slight damage to the scattered weather beaten structures on the Texas coast, and fortunately hadn't keel hauled my plans for a guided fishing trip to the bay.

I was in a party of several men who were members of a Christian hunting and fishing club, and for most of us it would be our first foray into salt water fishing. Because of the size of the group, we were split into two smaller groups, each having its own boat and fishing guide.

The time came for us to choose which boat and guide we wanted to latch on to. The first guide was about fifty years old I would guess, with a pot belly and red hair. His skin was blotchy from too much time in the sun, and his shirt was stained and faded. His oar looked safe, but it had seen better days.

The second guide looked like he stepped off the set of an outdoors television show. He had a new shiny boat, and was dressed in the latest Columbia fishing shirt and pants. I swear he looked just like Tom Selleck during his Magnum P.I. days. He oozed of guiding god-ness, and I knew I had my guide.

Unfortunately, I wasn't able to get on his boat....others beat me to it. Just my luck, I would be stuck with the second rate guide.

I decided to make the best of things, and at least have a good time. We started the day by wading about 200 yards from the boat to reach a deep cut in the bay. We fanned out in a skirmish line, about 20 yards separating one man from another. We started to cast our live mullet toward the cut.

Bait fishing is something I do rarely, preferring to fly fish instead. But I had not set this trip up, and this guide service did bait fishing. When in Rome...

Before long we started catching an occasional speckled trout. However I noticed our guide caught 2 fish for each one that we as a group caught. So I made my way down the line next to him to find out what he was doing differently.

First I noticed his rod was a good foot longer than mine, allowing him to case quite a bit further. He allowed that I needed to let the fish run a bit with the bait before striking, and showed me how to work the bait so that the rattle we had affixed to the line with rubber tubing made the best fish attracting noise possible. Soon, I was hooking as many fish as my guide.

By the end of the day, we were tired, and had a cooler full of fish.

Back at the dock, the cleaning of fish commenced. Tom Selleck brought his boat in. Even though I now respected my guide more than I had that morning because he put us on fish, I just knew Tom was going to come in with a boat groaning with huge fish.

I was dead wrong. Tom and his party hadn't boated more than 5 fish for the whole day. In spite of his new boat, new gear, and good looks, he had to eat crow at the dock as his clients looked at our full cooler.

Money could buy most of what Tom had...but my guide had earned his knowledge. The blotchy skin was from long hours looking for good spots before we arrived at the lodge. The faded shirt also had been sun beaten, and the boat had hauled many fish to the dock in its day.

Sure, I know the old saying that you can't judge a book by its cover; but that day I learned that you also can't judge a guide by his looks or his rig. Here's to you Marvin...

"Just Stuff"

2009-11-09T20:21:00.003-06:00

A few days ago, I came out of the office to find that my diesel F250 Lariat had been stolen right off the company lot. Never having experienced a theft of that magnitude, my first reaction was shock, then I thought perhaps I had just forgotten where I parked. Those who know me might find that funny, since I am such a routine person. I almost always park in the same place.

The rest of the day was a flurry of filing reports with the police, corporate security, and my insurance company. All in all not a fun Friday.

I hated the thought of going through the process of shopping for another truck. Some guys love it, but not me. I had wanted this F250 for a long time, and I had planned to keep it for a lot longer. It was paid for, and the thought of sinking money into another vehicle is quite unpleasant.

I was irritated and inconvenienced. But not irate. I have full coverage on the truck, so I knew I would be somewhat protected. After all, as a friend pointed out, it is just stuff. Stuff can be replaced. At least I still had my health and my family, etc.

Just stuff...quite true, in one sense. In another, a truck holds a bit of a spiritual connection to a guy. Let me explain to my Dos Equis chromosomed friends...

To a guy a truck is more than a mode of transportation. If all we did was put gas in it, then maybe we would feel like some of you ladies do about your cars; merely a conveyance from point A to point B.

But we have invested in our tucks. We can tell you the engine displacement, horsepower, torque, and towing capacity of our trucks. We can tell you the tire size and type have, and how a 5 inch downpipe will increase performance like Viagra for a billy goat.

What size bed does it have? Sure, we know. And we can tell you if object A will fit in pickup B without measuring. Yes we will help you move, but no you can't borrow it.

We have gotten them stuck in the mud down at the coast, slipped off 4WD trails in the mountains, and slept in them.

Lift kits? yeah, we got em. BFG's? Heck yeah. Mud is a badge of honor, and if we wash the truck, it is because we are taking you out. We don't do that for just anyone.

Flowmasters, MBRP, Bully dog performance chips, you name it, we have read about it, talked about it, dreamt about it, or installed it.

Each truck is an individual as it's owner. Scratches in the paint and dents just tell a richer story. We can tell you where we got each one.

My truck had some dents. There are the dings in the tailgate received when a trailer I was towing jumped off the hitch when we were trucking up the interstate. The trailer had kayaks on it and the nose of one of the yaks banged the bumper and tailgate as I slowed the renegade trailer that was now hanging by its tow chains to the shoulder. We fixed the problem, and headed north. I will never forget seeing the panic in the eyes of my 3 friends as that trailer whipped back and forth. But I wasn't worried. I somehow knew my truck was strong enough to handle the situation. And it was.

That truck, driven by my daughter, carried my bride and me away from the church on our wedding day.

It moved my daughter and her roommate away to college with all their things in the bed. It moved her home after graduation...this time with only my daughter's belongings, which took up all of the room in the in the bed, plus an additional 12 foot trailer.

It took my dog Bandit on his last ride on this earth.

My dog Trey recognized the sound of the engine from a block away.

My granddaughter knew "papa's big truck" was the safest place to ride, and had the best vantage point for spotting tractors and "baby cows".

It took us on several trips to Colorado, the Texas coast, and once to Tennessee for Tammy to meet my parents before we married. Itwas the lynch-pin for countless hunting and fishing excursions.

So yeah...a truck is just stuff to a guy. The stuff of life. Milestones and memories. A good truck can no more be replaced than a good friend or dog can. You can get another, but it won't replace what has been lost. So I won't try.

A Change in Stride....

2009-10-19T12:39:00.006-05:00

A recent Sunday afternoon hike with friends along a spring fed creek brought with it an opportunity for reflection.

As we walked, I noticed a significant change in the posture and cadence of my friends. Indeed I too changed as we walked deeper into the woods.

When we met at the trail head, a paved parking lot, I noticed no real difference in our interactions or pace of travel. But shortly after the pavement became a trail, the subtle change occurred.

I doubt that others noticed; they were enjoying one of the most beautiful fall days that could be imagined. Others on the trail also seemed similarly distracted. After all, that is part of the reason to reconnect with nature isn’t it? To escape some of the urban pressures if only for a while?

No fly rod accompanied me on this trip, though I did scout for fish every time the trail led along the water. Nor did I carry a gun for game. Invariably, my hunter-gatherer instincts were just below the surface; noticing flora and fauna, looking for tracks, and taking note of directions of travel and wind. Even though sounds of traffic were present at the outset of the hike, they dimmed with distance from the trailhead.

As we travelled, I noticed we were on a well marked and travelled trail. It was wide enough for two to walk abreast and converse; and so we did. Gradually the terrain changed, and the smooth trail became rocky and unlevel. Conversations became sporadic as care had to be given to routes of travel and the placement of feet.

The trail narrowed and snaked upwards along a cliff. Loose rocks and vegetation cluttered our way, and conversations waned even more. Gradually our route took us down toward the creek.

We decided to cross the water in an area where strategically placed stones appeared to provide safe passage. Some travelers found rocks which seemed to promise a firm purchase rolled underfoot and caused them to fight for balance before slipping into the shin-deep water.

Gradually we finished our adventure and said our goodbyes in the parking lot, departing to our separate homes, with elevated moods from enjoying creation.

I pondered though. It seems that in the city we walk with consistent strides and cadence. I normally only look at my feet when putting on my shoes in the morning. Seldom do I watch the sidewalks as I walk in the city because sidewalks are predictable...level...and boring.

However in the woods and creeks, I need to constantly adjust my stride to accommodate the demands of the trail. I must take note of rocks and stumps (and cacti in Texas), and perhaps the occasional snake. I must slow down and make adjustments. In order to look around, I need to stop walking to avoid a twisted ankle or worse. Conversations become condensed, as attention must be paid to locomotion.

Could it be that the elation we felt after the hike had as much to do with breaking our stride as it did with simply being in the outdoors? Is it possible that we are created with the innate need for variety, challenge, and difficult trails?

Perhaps as I walk in life, my difficult trails should be viewed not primarily as uncomfortable and discouraging, but as obstacles that help me boil things down to their essence. Maybe by enjoying the challenges from a change of cadence, it will allow me to experience elation at the end of the trail, and give me confidence for future rough roads.

Could it be gentle reader, that we all need a break in stride?

"In our family, there was no clear line between religion and fly fishing"

2009-10-13T08:02:00.008-05:00

Snagged from Moldy Chum...

"Last Sunday a monument dedicated to the Rev. John Maclean and his son's book "A River Runs Through It" was unveiled in front of the First Presbyterian Church in Missoula. Church members Thelma Hogan and Tom Finch conceived of the commemoration, which comes 100 years after Maclean became pastor in Missoula. He and wife Clara arrived in February 1909 from Clarinda, Iowa, with young sons Norman and Paul in tow. "

To those who have seen the movie, actor Tom Skerritt (who portrays Maclean), bears an uncanny resemblance to the family patriarch.

The Maclean family in 1911...

Link

Though this movie has been reviled by some who disliked the influx of newbies to fly-fishing and "ruined" some rivers by an increase in fishing pressure, the book and the movie are works that have inspired many, including yours truely.

I did not take up fly fishing because of the movie, but it was one of the catalysts along the way that brought me back to it.

- and I am still haunted by waters...

Those Who Wait...

2009-09-23T19:49:00.012-05:00

I met my son at the pistol range the other day. He just bought a new Kimber 1911 and wanted to try it out.

There was nothing really significant about the event, except it was one of only two times in recent years we had participated in an outdoors related event together.

My son, who at this writing is in his early twenties accompanied me on many of my outdoor pursuits in his childhood. We both attended our state’s hunter education training as soon as he was old enough to go. I carried him on my back across the marsh to a little island where we put together a makeshift blind to hunt ducks from when he was ten. A year later I took him on an overnight trip to the Texas coast where he took his first duck…a gorgeous drake pintail, on a high left to right crossing shot. I nearly burst the buttons on my shirt that day.

Somewhere along the way, the passion that I had for the outdoors since I was a little boy failed to transfer to my son. Through his teen years, when I dreamed we would be on many more trips to the outdoors, his passion was cars and girls. Now don’t get me wrong, I had those interest at his age too, but there was still room for hunting and fishing.

My daughters also went along on hunting and fishing trips, and they still enjoy going from time to time. My oldest daughter in fact really took a liking to shooting skeet, though college has left her little time to continue that interest.

But (perhaps chauvinistically), fathers often have a strong desire to pass along recreational pursuits to his son that are important to him. For some that might be the love of a professional sports team, or an appreciation of muscle cars. For me it is the love of the outdoors.

When my son seemed uninterested in my passions, I continued to pursue them, but it felt like there was something missing. I felt guilty, that I must have somehow done something wrong ; that I had been inept at instilling a visceral connection with creation. I read all the articles on how to introduce your kids to the outdoors...some of it I did right, and in some cases I did it all wrong. I bought a bass boat so that we could fish together, bought youth model shotguns so that we could shoot together, and all the youth camo the kids needed. I paid for sporting clay coaches and personalized tackle boxes, Spiderman fishing poles and cheap duck calls. I took days off from work when they had an early release from school to take them fishing or camping. But it seemed that the outdoors bug was a passion only for me. I had to come to terms with that universal issue parents face when their dreams for their kids are not the same dreams the kids have for themselves.

Even though I longed to share moments in the field and on the waters with my kids, I let them choose not to go with me. Maybe I should have tried harder. Maybe it just wasn't their thing. I am not sure, but I sometimes feel like I just flat failed in this area, and it makes me sad, because the love of the outdoors has given me many fun times and precious memories.

Epilogue : I started writing this post a year ago, and didn't really know how to conclude it. However last weekend my son accepted an invitation to go shoot sporting clays with me and one of my friends. We had a great time, and it was especially fun since my son had just finished his second week at a new job after being out of work for eight months. It seemed that there was much to celebrate. Not only had his personal financial picture taken a turn for the better, but our relationship had as well. After the shoot, complete with all the teasing and joking that guys do, I got a text message from my son that said in part..."that was fun. Let's do that more often, and maybe shoot in some competitions". I was thrilled...not as much from getting to shoot with my son, but more from being able to spend time with him doing something we both now enjoy. In fact we are shooting again this weekend.

Good things do indeed come to those who wait.

John Boat

2009-09-04T17:42:00.004-05:00

Duck season started slowly that year, so when the invitation to head to north Texas came, it was enthusiastically accepted. My twelve year- old son and I packed the truck with all the essentials. My two young daughters came along as well, to spend the weekend with their aunt, whom they adored.

Our home in central Texas was only a few hours’ drive from my brother- in- law’s home, but the difference in good duck habitat is considerable. My stomping grounds are more conducive to hunting turkey and deer, since we have more rocks than water. My brother- in- law lived on the blackland prairies, where water is more abundant.

Upon our arrival in north Texas we immediately began preparations of the john boat for our early morning departure. The hunting party numbered five in total, not counting the retriever. Decoy lines were checked, gas tanks filled and the coffee pot was set to begin brewing at 3AM.

After a hearty supper, we turned in. I never can sleep before a hunt or a fishing excursion; this night was no exception. I tossed and turned in the guest bedroom, as if by so doing I could speed up the clock on the nightstand.

I was up before the alarm, and the other duck slayers soon began assembling in the kitchen. Dogs were fed as we tanked up on coffee to warm us for the morning campaign.

A local 24 hour convenience store served as our breakfast stop. I spied huge sausage breakfast burritos under a heat lamp so large that it looked like it belonged in a mad scientist's laboratory. My companions bought several without remorse. I was a little worried how those would sit on top of the beers they killed the night before, but they were younger than me. Maybe they still had some cast iron left in their stomachs. I opted for a cinnamon roll and more coffee.

At the boat launch it became evident that we had more stuff in the boat than we should, and once five hunters and a dog were added to the bags of decoys, guns and shells, we looked like the Clampetts going duck hunting. I thought I even saw a toilet seat in the boat, but it was pitch dark still, and I couldn't be sure.

We arrived at our hunting spot as the sun rolled over and pulled the blankets over his head. Quickly we threw out our decoys. Only my brother- in-law and I had waders, so we set the decoys and opted to hunt standing in the thigh deep water using some short bushes that grew in the shallow water for our blind. The other three hunters stayed on the boat, which was equipped with a pop-up blind of its own.

A few ducks trickled in, and we got some of them, but the hunting was generally slow. The early morning flight had subsided, so I began to look around a bit more at my surroundings, being my first hunt on this public venue.

As I turned, to my horror, my gaze fell upon one of my companions seated on a camp stool that was perched on the casting deck of the boat, outside the blind.

His camo pants were around his ankles, and he was in the throes of answering nature’s call. I discovered later that this was normal for him. Every morning at 9:00 he had to go, and it didn’t matter if he was on the job site or in a duck blind.

For the uninitiated, this particular type of camp stool is of the folding sort with an approximation of a toilet seat on it. A large trash bag is hung underneath to serve as the, ah, receptacle.

Now as if that weren’t enough to ruin your morning, his next stunt was.

Finished communing with nature, our companion decided that the best option for the offending trash bag was to fling it as far from the boat as possible. Being an astute student of physics, our intrepid poster child for regularity began swinging the bag overhead like David wielding his sling before rocking Goliath's world.

There are moments in your life where time seems to slow as you see with perfect clarity how an impending disaster will unfold. This was such a time.

Much can be said about bargain shopping, but I implore you, if you are buying garbage bags for a camp toilet, do not buy generic bags. When employed as a sling they tend to split and distribute fertilizer in a 360 degree kill zone. The ensuing mayhem was similar to when troops scramble for cover during mortar attacks.

As the sky cleared of the rain of terror, a look of confusion twisted our companion's face as he tried to comprehend what he had just done to four heavily armed men in ill humor.

I always wondered why they called them “john” boats.

Just Around The Next Bend

2009-08-03T21:22:00.005-05:00

Sweat beaded my brow despite the coolness of the mountains of southern Colorado. We had been on the trail for hours. My lack of physical preparation coupled with a zeal for packing more than I needed resulted in tired muscles and a dull mind.

My companions and I started the morning hike to Archuletta Lake full of excitement. You know excitement...it's the emotion you feel when you don't fully understand what you are getting yourself into? Yeah. Thought so.

After a few miles hiking uphill with a seventy pound backpack, our excitement began to wane. One of my companions...younger and in better shape than the other two...was also born with a larger dose of optimism than we had. He encouraged us along the trail. His method was to hike ahead of us up the trail and then take a break with his hands on his hips and a smile on his face. When we caught up with him, our sea-level lungs burning from trying to distill oxygen from the thin mountain air, he would turn and head farther up the trail. I don't curse, but I was saving some choice words for him. I don't think he ever even broke a sweat.

Our goal was to reach a small alpine lake, and to camp there for half a week, while fly fishing for trout. It was my first trip to this area, but my companions had vacationed here frequently.
The scenery was beautiful, but I began to fail to notice due to the severity of my exertion. Six hours on the trail passed. Then seven hours. We began to give up hope of finding the camp shown on our map by sundown. Our cheerful companion Reagan said;
"c'mon guys, it's gotta be just around the next bend".

My leg started to cramp around the 9th hour of the hike, and my rest breaks became more frequent. Reagan kept encouraging...
"it can't be much farther, let's go around the next bend".

Around the next bend we went, and the next, and the next. Then my other leg began to cramp. I thought about pitching my tent by the trail to spend the night, rather than trying to continue. Reagan went on ahead, where finally he located the campground, and shouted more encouragement to us, guiding us in.

Kevin and I drug into camp and we pitched our tents together. The days that followed are etched into my memory, and we three share some inside jokes and stories from that trip that now are only shared by two.

You see, Reagan has gone on ahead of us on the trail. He is in the campground and is shouting encouragement to us with the saints of heaven...if I look and listen I can see and hear him just now...

"Come on y'all...it's not much further...it's just around the bend".

In Memory of Reagan Center; February 22, 1971 - July 29, 2009

The Baptism of Mark

2009-07-21T13:48:00.012-05:00

Baptism has its roots in Jewish antiquity.

The basic concept was that if a Jew had become ceremonially “unclean” through the violation of one of the laws in the Torah, they had to be cleansed in order to be eligible to participate in religious observances at the temple.

The Greek word from which we get our word “baptism” means to dip or immerse. In 1311 at the Council of Ravenna, the Catholic Church decided that sprinkling or pouring was acceptable for their practices. My family, however, has long been in the camp of dunkers, both from a belief system and in how we approach bodies of water in general.

In my youth, I was not much of a swimmer. My mother’s fear of water somehow was imprinted on me, and even though I took lessons, the concept of swimming was slow to take root in my juvenile mind.

I clearly recall after a week of swimming lessons in the city pool, students were to demonstrate our new found abilities by diving in and swimming across the dreaded “deep end”. I held my breath, dove in, and promptly forgot to swim. I slowly sank, looking up at the surface wondering what I was supposed to do next. Perhaps that was because I had not learned to swim in the shallow end, since it was too easy to fake it where my feet could touch bottom. It was, in retrospect, very peaceful under the water, until the lifeguard jumped in to pull me from the depths.

A few years later, at the end of a church service, my mother was helping some ladies prepare for their baptism. As she peeked out of the baptistery, to check on the progress of the service, a slip landed her in the water while the congregation prayed. At the sound of the splash all eyes shot up. Mom had skedaddled through to the other side and was nowhere in sight, but the image of her lone, low heeled pump floating across the surface of the water is indelibly ingrained on my mind.

Eventually, I did learn to swim and mom learned to stay away from the baptistery. My early fear of water gave way to the fascination of lakes and rivers, seasoned with a bit of healthy respect.

In recent years, my desire to explore moving water eclipsed my desire to fish large lakes. I spend as much time as possible chasing piscatorial treasures in moving water; it just seems more alive and mysterious to me than stagnant ponds.

However, my change in venue apparently did not change my Baptist upbringing. I still on occasion, find it necessary to be re-baptized, though not through conviction or conscious decision.

Recently, while in the charge of a young guide, I found a unique way of going about a ceremonial cleansing. I was in the front of a 3-man fishing raft in a swivel seat. We just completed fishing a run by anchoring the boat and wading the length of the run. Upon returning to the raft and finding my place in the seat, I leaned over the side to assist my guide in freeing one of the oars from an obstruction.

I then heard a small ping signaling the loss of the retaining clip which held my seat in place. In an instant I knew it was show time. Fortunately I was prepared for the performance.

I chose a slow headfirst slide over the side of the raft as my initial baptism in this particular river. It seemed dramatic and respectful to me, without a much screaming. I had deftly laid my fly rod down before the event, which allowed me use of both arms to slow the dive to an almost fluid descent into the river. I felt this was more gentlemanly, since several homes dotted the banks, and the hour was getting late. I didn’t want to disturb someone’s supper. In addition it allowed my guide to develop just the right amount of fear. After all, who doesn’t need a good adrenaline boost at the end of a day of rowing? I felt it was my civic duty to help out.

Some people simply and awkwardly fall out of boats, trip while wading, or step off into a hole. This shows a distressing lack of style and imagination. If you fish, you must come to terms with the fact that you will at some point find yourself in the drink, so some preparation is in order. With a little forethought and practice, casual observers will marvel at the display of grace as you float your hat. It’s the least we owe to our sport, and will likely cause many onlookers to wish to participate in a sport that encourages such freedom of personal expression.

In the interest of furthering this niche of the fishing arts, I humbly submit the following brief guide to falling into the water with style.

There are many variations on the theme, but first consider your conveyance. If you are on the deck of a flats boat, your options are considerably different than if you are wading in a mountain stream. Just as it would be uncivil to use an eight weight rod on Smoky Mountain brook trout, or a 12 gauge on quail, attempting a drift boat drive from a kayak just isn’t cricket.

Next, you should take into account your audience. On salt flats, considerable distance between anglers is common. Wearing bright clothes and shouting loudly are considered proper form before hitting the drink. This way, one is better able to draw the attention (and associated appreciation) from those as far as one hundred yards away. Large arm movements are a nice touch as well, as they naturally draw the eye away from watching corks and lines to something truly remarkable. From personal experience, I would suggest using arm motions that start slow and increase in speed until just prior to hitting the water.

Entry into the water should be calculated to create the largest splash possible. Remember the beloved cannonball dive at the local pool? Extra style points are given for soaking nearby friends and/or guides.

Finally, and critically important to the overall score, is how you emerge from the water. Neophytes try to scramble out as quickly as possible. My encouragement is to linger a while to allow the observers to take in all that has just occurred. Then as cool at MacArthur returning to the Philippines, calmly take a bow and re-mount your conveyance as cleanly as possible. A bow or a wave for a particularly inspiring dive is acceptable, but don’t overdo it. Discretion is the better part of valor.

In closing, always show due appreciation to the masters of this sport, and be willing to share your knowledge of proper diving techniques to the young. In doing so, you will leave a legacy that will inspire future generations of anglers.

Oh, and the raft? Yeah, this is the one...props to my friend Bill Higdon on the oars in this pic...

Cowgirl on the Fly

2009-07-14T12:26:00.002-05:00

From the guys at Moldy Chum...story here

Malaise Ya

2009-07-09T13:19:00.011-05:00

Yesterday the mercury hit 105F. We are in an "exceptional" drought, the most severe category recognized by NOAA. Most boat ramps are unusable because of the low water in area lakes.

Texas has already suffered losses over $1 billion the cattle industry alone due to the drought.

Yesterday I received word that fish are dying on the upper Guadalupe River, above Canyon Lake because of the lack of water.

I feel restless...lethargic...unfocused. My steps are slow and labored, without direction or purpose. Sleep is deep but not refreshing. Usually a short fishing trip trip to my local creek provides a quick fix for almost any funk I may find myself in. But not yesterday.

The water is slow and low. The edges of the small lake are lined with choking mats of algae, and the water is as warm as a bath. I fished for a couple hours just before sundown, and only pulled a single fish...which threw the hook before I got a look at it.

I feel as wilted as my lawn. We both could use a shot of cool water.

I feel the undeniable pull of the mountains; cool, distant and mysterious, whispering to me on the fairy wings of my subconscious dreams....

A Favorable Wind

2009-06-15T21:42:00.007-05:00

Acts 27:13a - When a gentle south wind began to blow, they thought they had obtained what they wanted...

A scarlet sunset foretold a sailor's delight at the dawning of the morrow. She rose from her bed early, as had been her practice since childhood, and checked the wind. Light and southerly, as the sunset has predicted. A tired smile traced one of the many lines on her face.

She made her way to start the coffee in the kitchen, a ritual so ingrained that she brewed twice as much as she needed. She looked around at her snug, small house. It had witnessed the raising of three boys to manhood and now settled into midlife gracefully. A worn lawn once strewn with footballs and bicycles now sported a new crop, blossoming into a vibrant garden. The soil yielded to the touch of a mother whose need to nurture continued even after the nest was empty.

As she sipped her coffee, her mind struggled to determine if she was awake or dreaming. So much of the last few days had been lived in a haze, and the fringes of her mind lost track of the border between fact and fiction.

Bred of Scottish stock, she had no patience for impractical thoughts. She shook the fog from her mind, and moved down the darkened hall to the small office where her trip planning was well underway.

She sat at the desk and allowed herself a glance at images in frames that froze time, then got to work.

Her schedule was a busy one, driven with all the urgency of a businessman's. First there was a trip to the shore near home, which she would attempt today, as the salmon were in.

Then there was the Mothers Day hatch on the Animas River she must plan for, and the Green Drake hatch on Henry's Fork. In the early summer there would be a trip to the Bahamanian bonefish flats, and in the fall to the special lake in Yellowstone where the cutthroats would be feeding on dries all day.

So many plans and phone calls and emails to attend to. She must remember to have the neighbors tend to the watering while she was away, and stop the paper and mail deliveries. The trips would be a lot shorter this year than most, and she was keeping her gear to a minimum.
She went over the rivers and tidal flats in her mind, remembering exact locations that she would visit with her husband in tow.

They had fished together for fifty years, starting in their courtship in Montana, and continuing through the lean years of raising babies and paying mortgages. The trips then were often only a couple hours long, when they could bribe a teen aged babysitter to sit with their energetic brood to coincide with the early summer evening hatches.

The boys grew into teens themselves and retirement soon followed, allowing a respite from the demands of industry. The fishing trips became frequent to more distant locations, but always they went together, as they would this day.

Today she drove, and he occupied the passenger seat. He often had her drive to the shore when they fished, as he obsessively rearranged the flies in his box and checked leaders. He, like his wife, had a liberal streak of Scottish practicality, and time commuting should not be time wasted.

Since the news arrived that the salmon were finally in, they selected a mid-week trip, as they are best for avoiding the weekend crowds. They never sought solitude from one another, preferring to fish in the same way they lived, as partners. But they preferred solitude from others; especially today.

The walk from the parking lot to their favorite point on the shore seemed to take a long time. Her steps, once light and brisk with the excitement of salmon were slowed by the years. She paused to rest a moment and checked the wind again...it would be at their backs, perfect for carrying casts far into the surf.

She reached the point, and looked around. It had changed since their first trip here, but it was still breathtaking. She reached into her bag and removed the lid from a small jar.

Pouring a handful of ashes into her palm and threw them as far into the ocean, carried by the wind. She watched as he was carried further into the tide, then slowly turned back to the car, where four more jars remained, waiting for a favorable wind....

Dusk Patrol

2009-05-30T14:10:00.006-05:00

Boiling dark clouds scudded before me in the growing gale. I was cheating the speed limit as I raced westward, trying to beat old man winter to the ranch.

The weather forecast warned of the approaching blue norther for a few days now. This far south in Texas however, the cold fronts often lose their punch before reaching us. I guess that’s why sometimes it seems the snow birds outnumber the ducks.

Today however, we were braced for the first cold blast of the winter. The news of the change in weather had me on edge for days. I wanted to be able to be on the water when the front arrived, but the timing of such an event is bound more by Mother Nature’s laws than the laws of the work week. As a harassed slave of industry, these convergences normally arrive without me as a witness.

This time the planets aligned, and I escaped the city. I packed the truck the night before with waders, shells, and decoys. I tied down the dog’s kennel and wrapped it with its insulated waterproof cover.

When I was able, I snuck out of the office, raced home to grab my black lab, and hit the road. While most people were headed to the grocery for hot chocolate and chili supplies, I raced a mass of cold air to the ranch where I often hunted. It was a race against the approaching front, and sundown. If lucky, I might get a 30 minute hunt in before legal shooting time elapsed for the day.

The ranch I hunt is located in the Texas Hill Country. Defined by the geological uplift called the Llano Estacado, it is a semi-arid country of rolling hills, mountain cedars and live oaks. It’s a region renowned for deer, not duck hunting. Cattle ranches dominate the landscape, and the ranchers have created ponds, known locally as “tanks”, to keep their cows well watered during our searing summers. The tanks pull double duty as rest and refueling areas for waterfowl on their migration to the gulf coast.

While not a mecca for duck hunting, we have enjoyed many memorable shoots at the ranch. Most are morning affairs, and the best shooting is when the weather is cold enough to ice over most of the area tanks. The ranch has three tanks that never ice completely, because they are spring fed. Since they never freeze over, they become very popular with the gadwalls and teal when other smaller waterholes are inaccessible. A fourth tank is shallow and only holds water in wet seasons, and it normally will not hold ducks.

Since I would be hunting alone, I planned to hunt the smallest of the three tanks. It is lined with trees along the dam, making a perfect place for a natural blind. In addition, when the wind turns out of the northwest, it would be quartering across my back, making shots at decoying birds relatively simple.
The wind was still gusty as I approached the gate to the ranch, but had not yet turned northwesterly. I drove past the house, my truck knowing the way by heart from our frequent visits.

Parking near the barn, I quickly gathered my gear and my dog, who was as anxious to get going as I was. A short ten-minute hike put us on the tank, and in short order decoys were splashing into position. The evening was steel gray, closing around us, and the winds began to come around from the north. We settled in to wait for what the winds might bring us, my lab softly whining and shivering in anticipation. I squinted into the spitting rain ahead of the clouds, trying to make out the squadrons of web-footed, feathered jets that I hoped would appear.

Bandit, my lab, was a young dog who had not yet made his first retrieve. I had a secret fear that he might not get a chance for a retrieve today, or worse yet, might get tangled in decoy lines. Seasoned dogs know to avoid the decoys, but had I trained him well enough?

This was the hunt I had dreamt of for years. Everything seemed perfect…now if the ducks would only cooperate.

As I looked across the tank, I made out faint dark spots that grew larger in the sky. The rapid wing beats identified the knot of birds as a small flock of teal. They circled behind me, too high for a shot. I pulled my head turtle-like deeper into the parka hoping not to give away our position. As the squadron passed, the wind over their feathers sounded like tearing silk.

The flock rocketed downwind as I blew into my call. They wheeled and dropped like stones into the decoys. I don’t remember shouldering my shotgun, but as the blast echoed against the gale, three ducks rocketed for altitude; two remained behind on the water.

Bandit made two retrieves of the birds, just at the close of shooting time. We hiked back to the truck, and then stopped by the house to talk to Mr. Kirby, the ranch owner.

“Well, I heard shootin’, how’d you do?”

“Got a couple nice teal,” I replied.

“Mr. Kirby, why don’t you come shoot with me next time?”

“No, thanks son. I used to hunt a lot, but since I got back from the war…well I guess I have done enough shooting for one lifetime.”

Mr. Kirby, you see, left the hill country of Texas as a boy, saddled a P-38 Lightning and rode it to the Pacific, where he became one of the fighter pilots of World War II. On the wall of his ranch house are personal letters from Charles Lindbergh, who also flew P-38s in combat. On another wall is a shadow box with a picture of one of NASA’s shuttle crews, and Mr. Kirby’s pilot’s wings, which accompanied the crew on their mission. There is data telling how far, how fast, and how high the wings went while in space.

For him, there was no longer joy from watching ducks fly into the decoys. Too many memories of watching flights of more lethal birds crowd his mind. Blue eyes that once peered down the sights of four Browning .50 caliber machine guns at approaching Japanese Zeros mist over for a moment as his thoughts returned to dogfights won, and the dusk patrols.

Fading Light

2009-05-26T06:07:00.006-05:00

Rays of sunlight streamed through the outstretched arms of the trees, casting a golden glow on the hour. The star of our solar system was running for the horizon, ready to punch the clock on yet another day.

This magical hour before sunset brought a resurgence of life. Mother Nature’s minions roused again after a mid-day respite.

It had always been so. He had grown up a boy on a farm, where the chores of the day were started early, while city folks were still snug in their beds. He accomplished more by noon than they would all day. Thus mid- day often found him resting after dinner; which as everyone from the farm knows is the noon day meal. Supper comes in the evening.

He used these afternoon breaks as time to read about far flung adventurers and dream of the day he could shake the dust from this old plot of land from his feet. Sometimes he would lie on his back in the fields, watching the clouds and listening to the hum of insects; and he would let his mind go.

However as evening drew near, and nature resumed her cadence before the night, his mind became more alert and focused on the pulses of life around him. Late summer afternoons days he would often make a hike to the river to dab grasshoppers in quiet eddies. More often than not, he would be rewarded with a fresh fish supper.

He learned long ago that the filtered light of the evening was better for fishing. One could flog the water all afternoon with little to show. But in that magic hour before dark, the fish began to feed with abandon, shedding their inhibitions like the grownups would in a few hours at the local honky-tonk.

A few years back he saved up some extra spending money and bought a cane fly rod from the local department store. The rod had languished in the dust in the back of the store for years…pragmatic farmers didn’t see the need to spend money on a pole when there was plenty of good bamboo for the cutting at the river’s edge. He had read some Hemmingway borrowed from the school’s library, and decided that he needed to learn to fly fish in order to be a proper man of the world..

He taught himself to cast from instructional articles in the outdoor magazines, and even began to tie some flies. The henhouse provided a lot of free feathers, and the unpressured fish took them greedily. They usually tore up quickly, without the benefit of modern threads and glues. What they lacked in durability they made up for in effectiveness and frugality.

Here he was again on the river, rod in hand, and flies at the ready. He had been here before, and he was not hurried. He was not angry at the fish, and only needed a couple for supper. He looked out over the water and waited.

Soon dimples began to appear on the surface of the waters as fish began their dining. Still he waited. Night birds and bats began to whir above the water, and then he began to cast. Line slipped through his fingers as the rod bent to ancient rhythms that had rocked the cane when it had been alive and rooted in the earth. The rod remembered the wind, and the sun and the water as it bent, then straightened, shooting silken line across the water; the fly landing softly on fairy wings.

On the first drift, no fish took his offering. His mind began to drift on the edge of consciousness as the fly drifted on the edges of currents…twisting, turning, fettered to the rod but oddly disconnected. He let his mind go. His thoughts began to wander, with old memories coming back to life after a long mid day of repose.

He recalled the confusion of military basic training, and the orders given that had no logic, other than to be obeyed. He remembered the faces of those who became brothers in arms; those he grew to love in his unit, and those that never came home.

He seemed to recall a face of a beautiful woman; had she been his wife? He hoped so, but wasn’t sure.

The rod bent again as he recast the fly upstream toward a different current seam, and began a new drift. A fish rose, sipped the fly, and he set the hook.

The beautiful woman reappeared in his mind as he battled the fish, whispering his name. The volume of the words seemed to increase, and his grasp on the rod slipped; and he let it go.

“Papa, how did you get out of bed by yourself, and why are you sitting in front of the picture window? “

“We find him like that most evenings ma’am, just sitting in his wheelchair, staring at the creek. I don’t know what he sees since the stroke took his voice. Maybe he just likes the view, because it seems to be the only time he smiles”, replied the nurse.

As the last of the sun’s glow was replaced by violet, his granddaughter wheeled him back to his room. Surrounded by pictures faded by time, but memories undimmed, he lay down to sleep; and let his mind go.

Legendary

2009-05-08T15:25:00.005-05:00

What do you think of when you hear the word "legend"? Mickey Mantle? Stevie Ray Vaughn? Audie Murphy? John Wayne? Lee Wulff?

What are the criteria that qualifies someone...or something as a legend?

I think performance is certainly one criteria.

Another is probably durability. Most legends perform at a level that is above average consistently. In some cases, decades.

What if we apply these two criteria to legendary trout streams...which would hit the mark? Or asked differently, those streams that have legendary status, how did they earn it?

Are some also - rans, those streams that are a sentimental favorite because of past glory, but miss the mark today because their production (performance) has slipped over the years?

I don't have the answer...just curious what your thoughts might be.

A New Vice

2009-05-05T16:21:00.008-05:00

I was recently chosen to become the next vice president of chapter affairs for the Guadalupe River Chapter of Trout Unlimited. While humbled by the nod, I am also aware that it could be a setup, judging by the celebration the former VP engaged in when my selection became official. I am not sure what I am in for, but then again, neither does GRTU ;-)

My official role will be to procure speakers, and herd cats for our general chapter meetings. I have already had the opportunity to meet some luminaries in fly fishing as a result of my association with GRTU, so I am excited to have the chance to bring in some really great speakers over the course of the next two years. In addition I get to work with one of the finest group of officers and board members imaginable.

Some of you know I have a passion for fly fishing, but perhaps are unaware of GRTU and what we do. So I wanted to bring a few facts to your attention.

Things being bigger in Texas, we are proud to be the largest local chapter of Trout Unlimited in the world with around 4,500 members.
We are the third largest business unit in all of Trout Unlimited
We are celebrating our 40th anniversary this year.
The Guad is the southernmost trout fishery in the U.S., and has been designated one of the top 100 trout streams in the nation, and was recently featured in the book Rivers of Restoration

The Guad was recently featured on a segment of Trout Unlimited's television program "On The Rise", which highlighted this gem of a river to a national audience.

We operate the only lease access program in all of Trout Unlimited, procuring access to the river for our lease holders though private property, ensuring quality fishing opportunities for our participants.

While our primary focus is the Guadalupe River below Canyon Lake, near Sattler, Texas, we also are active in coldwater conservation projects in other regions, like the Driftless region of the upper Midwest, and the South Platte River in Colorado.

Recent speakers to our chapter meetings have been Dave Whitlock, Gary Borger, and some of our local guides.

Next season, beginning in October, we will feature speaker, writer, and photographer extraordinaire Brian O'Keefe, whose current project Catch Ezine is a true treat for the eyes.

So check us out, and join us if you are of like mind. There is much to be proud of for this chapter, and much work to do. And who knows...it could help your fishing mojo!

A Rift Runs Through It

2009-04-30T18:52:00.007-05:00

I recently attended the acclaimed (rightfully so) Fly Fishing Film Tour in Austin. It was nothing short of spectacular, and everyone seemed to have a blast. For the uninitiated, the FFF tour provides the happy ticket holder with the chance to view a series of vignettes from new independent films about...well fly fishing.

These are exciting times in fly fishing. We are witnessing a convergence of modern pop culture and "the quiet sport". Never before has there been such mind-blowing photography and cinematography about our beloved sport. This new generation has mad skills.

A whole new genre of magazines and "e-zines" have popped up with a definite nod to the more urban, hip fly-fisher. Not surprisingly, the new generation fly-fisher is comfortable...perhaps even co-dependent on... their tech toys. This ease with technology serves as a catalyst for a plethora of available information, images, and...dare I say...angst toward the older guard of fly fishing.

Let's be honest. There is a culture and generational gap in fly fishing today. I read posts on blogs that drip with disdain for the contributions from luminaries like Lefty Kreh, Dave Whitlock, and Bob Clouser, to name a few.

I think what is really being communicated is not a disrespect for those gurus, but rather a desire by the millennial generation to experience fly fishing themselves rather than read about it from books written by someone. It's a common trait of this demographic group.

I have a sneaking suspicion that there may be a few in the older crowd who rail against the younger set as well, perhpas less publicly because they may not be as comfortable posting on the web.

It isn't surprising. We shouldn't be shocked that the same types of generational tensions that occur in society at large are also evident in our little sub-culture.

Personally I think it's great. It means that the sport is still viable, and continuing to attract young people. These young film makers not only are drawing a whole new audience that sees fly-fishing as cool...they are sowing the seeds that may well draw the next Lefty to our sport.

So let's cut them some slack. We might all learn some things from each other, and witness some cool video in the process.

Quitting Time

2009-04-19T20:59:00.007-05:00

When I was a boy and went fishing with my dad, I never...ever...was ready to quit. Our times together were never often enough or long enough when we were on the water.

From my eighth year until my thirteenth, Dad worked nights and attended school during the day, as he prepared for the ministry. He was great about spending what little free time he did have with his family. He came to school plays and glee club concerts when he should have been sleeping. He came to my baseball games (even though at times I wish he hadn't been there to see me strike out or make a throwing error), and sometimes even came to practice.

But the times spent with dad that I remember most were the times he and I spent hunting and fishing together.

For those who fish, you know that part of the sport's pleasure is derived from the planning and anticipation of an outing. When dad announced he planned to take me fishing, I spent hours re-reading my meager collection of fishing magazines, and going through my tackle box to make sure all my gear was ready when the time came to load the car.

The nights before the trip, my dreams were filled with images of large fish caught in picturesque locations, just like in my magazines. Some mornings I awoke with such certainty that the dreams had been real, that I had to search the house to verify that no fish fillets were in the refrigerator.

Usually the reality of the trip fell short of my anticipation with respect to the size and number of fish caught, but I always had great fun. I was never happy to hear Dad say, "well, it's about time to go".

When he inevitably did, I would shoot off casts as quickly as I could as he readied things to go in hopes of catching just one more fish.

The intervening years haven't changed me much. I still can't sleep before a fishing trip. I still spend significant time in preparation. There are flies to tie, leaders and tippet to attach, and reels to oil. Weather reports receive intense scrutiny, as do fishing reports. If fishing saltwater, tide charts are consulted. If fresh water is the medium, I check the flow rates of the river.

One of the things that has changed is that today I am usually the one who signals the end of the day.

The onset of darkness is normally my nemesis. But recently, on my home water, a friend and I fished one evening until the moon came up, and illuminated the water such that we were able to continue fishing an hour after it was fully dark. We caught sunfish and bass on poppers and caddis flies until we finally agreed we should give the fish a rest.

It was a great day on the stream, and we could not complain about our success. But I still hated to quit, even though home and hearth awaited.

Maybe it's because while on the stream, weightier issues seem to drift away like a caddis on the current; at least for a time. Perhaps it is just being out of my cube and in nature's bosom that refreshes and recharges me. Maybe the camaraderie of a friend or loved one is the magic elixir.

I don't know if it is one of these or a combination of them all...but I do know that time spent with a fly rod in hand in a favorite stream allows me to face the routines of life with a little less rancor.

"The charm of fishing is that it is the pursuit of what is elusive but attainable, a perpetual series of occasions for hope." ~John Buchan

Confessions of an Elitist

2009-04-15T10:42:00.009-05:00

I was recently confronted with the possibility that I am a wealthy elitist.

I was amused at the wealthy part, but the charge has some merit as it depends on your point of view. I heard once that if you have more than one meal a day your are more wealthy off than 3/4 of the world's population. So from that perspective I suppose I am guilty as charged. But my banker would probably contest the assertion that I am wealthy.

The elitist charge was a bit bewildering to me and required some self-examination. The charge wasn't leveled at me individually, but against those who fly fish in general, and those who are members of Trout Unlimited in particular.

One definition of an elitist is "consciousness of or pride in belonging to a select or favored group". By that definition, being a fan of a particular sports team, ethnic group or military unit would apply. Certainly being a member of one of the most effective and respected conservation groups in the world, and the largest chapter of that organization fits this definition. And by that definition it is a source of pride.

Those who accuse us of elitism probably are not using that definition, but the alternate one which states, "The belief that certain persons or members of certain classes or groups deserve favored treatment by virtue of their perceived superiority, as in intellect, social status, or financial resources."

One of the biggest culture clashes currently in fishing is between those who catch and kill their fish, and those who espouse catch and release...the C&R group being the accused elitists.

As with most subjects, those on both sides of this debate defend their persuasion with fervor normally relegated to religious or political debates. If you live in Texas like I do, that extends to debates over the best barbecue or if chili should have beans in it or not.

Recently, I have been disturbed by the taking of fish from my home creek, presumably by those who are taking the fish for food. At first my opposition to catching and killing fish on our creek made me feel a bit superior, since I am primarily of the catch and release position.

Twice in the last week I have seen people catching and keeping fish on my home waters. One such incident occurred in a place I know harbors fish that are quite large for this small creek, an which are currently on their spawning beds, making them easier to spot.

Both times I was inwardly angered at what is most likely a legal activity that these people were engaged in. Then I had to squarely face the question of whether I am an elitist or not.

Aristotle said, "It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it." So I entertained the thought that I may be just that...someone who considers himself superior to others. I confess that I am guilty to a certain degree.

In the court of popular opinion thought (at least from those who read my blog), let me state my case. Though guilty of a form of elitism, let me also say that I too on occasion kill the fish I catch and eat them. Usually this is limited to trips to the coast, and an occasional white bass or crappie fish fry. I also hunt, where catch and release is a bit more tricky.

However I do not take wildlife in cases where it endangers either the species or their populations in a specific locale.

In the case of my home creek, it takes less than an hour to fish out a hole that may take years to recover, if it ever does. Therein lies my defense of my flavor of elitism.

I would submit that the enjoyment,relaxation, and rejuvenation afforded by fishing far outweighs the cost of a fish dinner. But once a fish, particularly a fish of breeding age is removed forever from a small stream, the ability of future generations to enjoy that fishery are impacted. Perhaps a little, perhaps dramatically. And to be honest (after all this is a confessional piece), I want a chance to catch that fish too.

So to the charge of elitism, I plead guilty, and I repent. My air of superiority has no place in the life of a Christ-follower, for any reason.

However, perhaps I can continue to be an evangelist for conservation...wise use of all our natural resources. They are not infinite, and I wish that my friends, children and grandchildren can experience catching a native Guadalupe bass in our creek, rather than only being able to experience it through books or video because of unregulated taking of fish.

Currents

2009-04-10T12:10:00.005-05:00

The current lapped at the rounded edge of the drift boat as he tried to make his eyes adjust to the morning light. He wasn't sure why he had agreed to this crap. It seemed so useless in the grand scheme of things. He moved slowly to the river's edge, moving as if in one of those dreams where your feet grow heavier the closer you get to your objective.

Dreams have been a major part of his life for the last year. Reality had been too harsh and ugly, full of pain and scars. At least in the dreams there had been some measure of escape, some hope of a different ending.

Mornings had once been a favorite time of day for him. That was when he was young and naive about the ways of the world, when each dawn brought endless possibilities. A chance to catch a bass, flush a pheasant, or maybe even kiss a girl. But that was before he discovered that evil never slept. Before evil visited his own shores and changed his life forever.

He, like many others answered the call of his country that day. The day innocence died along with 2,974 people in smoldering buildings and in a lonely field. The day his mother cried. The day his resolve was steeled.

That day seemed so long ago now. He now knew how to survive in a desert, and how to survive a fire fight. He learned what it was like to watch a friend die. He knew what it was like to believe he was going to die; maybe even to wish for it.

Yet here he stood, on the banks of a murmuring stream, on a morning with endless possibilities...few of which he cared anything about.

It had been the first sergeant who talked him into this. He didn't want to be here...to see pity in the eyes of others. He didn't want...didn't need it. Just came to get the sergeant off his back. Some nonsense about going fly fishing with a guide. No cost, just go enjoy it, they said. Sure...whatever.

The guide seemed nice enough. He had a slight limp, barely noticeable. Just a regular guy; maybe a little too old to be a guide. The tattoo on his forearm hinted that he had spent time on larger watercraft with a martial mission.

After a little small talk the guide asked if he had ever fly fished...he hadn't. Brief casting lessons followed. He was then shown to his seat in the front of the drift boat and they were off, pulled in by the main current, becoming part of it rather than simply riding on it. The landing slid silently away.

It had been a lifetime ago since he had been on a river. The concept that there could be a cool wet place left on earth was foreign to someone who had lived the last two years in the desert. Almost as foreign as being somewhere that IED's were not a daily occurrence.

"Might try a cast over here", his thoughts were interrupted by the guide. "We usually are able to pull one or two from this run, and that little midge pattern has been good to me this week".

Half heartedly he cast, and cast again. No luck. On the third drift, the indicator went upstream and he set the hook on the first of several fish he would land that morning. He could feel the tension in his mind unwinding with each run the trout made. His back and legs were still tight though. The therapist said it would take more therapy before the scars would stretch. The wounds were mostly healed...at least on the outside.

As the day wore on, the sky turned brilliant blue and the catching slowed. It warmed up enough that the guide suggested they wet wade.

"You mean get in the water?", he asked.

"Yeah, there is some skinny water here but the run on the far side is good. Hard to reach from the boat though with all these boulders."

"You know, I think I'd like to do that, but how about you fish the run and let me just...well I want to just stand in the river."

"You're the boss".

So he eased over the side of the boat, the cold water a bit of a shock, especially to one who hadn't bathed in over a year. It's too chancy with skin grafts you know. The guide grabbed his rod and made his way over to the run, leaving the soldier to his thoughts for a while.

He faced upstream, and felt the current press against his legs. The water curled around his body, becoming a living thing and making him part of itself. The chortle of water over stone soothed his war-weary mind, as he absorbed the life-source of the stream through skin once ravaged by fire. The cool flow began to wash away the sand, the hate, and the pain. For the first time he cried.

Tomorrow morning, the possibilities would be endless.

Please visit Project Healing Waters

Exploration

2009-04-08T20:53:00.006-05:00

"Exploration is less a search for the tangible than going on a journey simply to be going - unless of course, you are a fisherman." H William Price

One of the allures of fly fishing is exploration. We revel at the opportunity to find a new fishing hole, sometimes traveling great distances to do so. The fishing may be good, or it may not, but the drive to discover new places is strong in many of us.

Since time immemorial, mankind has longed to see what is over the next mountain, down the next riffle, and around the next bend. That innate drive led to the discovery of the New World and put a man on the moon. The latter eventually led to a phenomenon known as Google Earth.

Like most men, I have a certain fascination with maps. I can't fullyexplain it, but there is something wholly satisfying about knowing where you are, and how to get to another place from there. When I discovered Google Earth, I felt that I hit the mother lode. Looking at satellite photos of places I once lived or visited is almost beyond comprehension. GPS is another product of the space race and I have gladly utilized it when on business trips to far flung metro areas.

However, with all this technology, there is a downside. Secret creeks and lakes I once imagined had only been the realm of a few close friends now are easily found by anyone with a computer and internet access. There was a time when "blue lining", the practice of following unnamed squiggly blue lines on the topographic map, was about the only way to discover unpressured waters. Secret mountain meadow creeks were once discovered only by research and hard climbing, and protected by closed lips.

I know the thrill that comes from exploration and discovery. Much of it lately has been carried out after work and on weekends on a small local stream known of by many but explored by only a select few. Lately I have been contemplating how monochromatic life would become if all things and places were known. What would happen if one day there were no more undiscovered or unexplored places on the continent? Isn't the mystery of the unknown part of the adventure in the outdoors anyway?

What if through advances in science we could reduce fly selection to a single fly, guaranteed to hook a fish on each cast? What if we knew the location of each fish in the river, and we merely walked in, dialed in the number of the fish we desired to catch on our piscador GPS, initiated the flyline launch sequence on our microprocessor controlled flyrod and reel (which calculates the correct double-haul cadence to land the fly in exactly the right current seam), then caught and landed said fish using a computer aided drag system? Would that still be fun?

When does technology overshadow our experience in the outdoors? I know, I have heard all the excuses...we have such a small amount of leisure time, and we want to make it count by making sure we maximize our fish catching potential.

But what if maybe...just maybe we were focusing on the wrong thing? What if the very benefit we seek from being outdoors escapes us because we value a body count more than the chance to commune with the natural world, created to remind us of the Creator?

Perhaps there is still room for mystery, discovery and wonder in the natural world. Omniscience is blissfully out of my grasp.

Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after. ~Henry David Thoreau

The Morning Shift...

2009-03-21T16:04:00.004-05:00

Saturday morning, 6:40 AM - Starbucks drive through...

"Good morning welcome to Starbucks, what can I get started for you?"

"I'll have a grande 3 pump mocha"

"Okay, we will have that at the window for you"

(at the window)

"That's $3.81. So where are you going so early on a Saturday?

"I'm going fishing"

"....you suck!..(over her shoulder yells) MAKE HIS DECAF!"

Hmm...coffee apparently isn't the only thing bitter this morning. :-)

Fish Porn

2009-03-08T20:41:00.037-05:00

Ok, now that I have your attention...fish porn is the term used by some in the fishing world to describe lots of pics of fish.

Recently, friend Chris and I went to see if there were any willing trout on the Guadalupe River.

We ran down the night before to try to chase a few fish before the sun went down. Chris connected with a few, and announced that the day following would be great.

Chris is a fly fishing guide...which is to say that optimism is part of his stock in trade. He spends time taking clients with all levels of fly fishing skill down the river in a raft, and puts them on fish. Needless to say, he has to be an optimist.

I, on the other hand, am a realist. I know my skills, and my past successes and failures. I am able to remain pretty humble regarding potential fishing success, especially when fishing with guides. I expected Chris would catch a lot of fish, I would catch a few, but we would both have a grand time.

It turns out Chris was right and I was pleasantly surprised...and went home with a sore wrist from arm wrestling fish all day long.

The morning dawned cold for two Texas boys...the thermometer read 28F. Cold enough to freeze my wading boots which were left in the truck overnight, still wet from fishing the night before. I had to warm the laces in my hands to thaw them out so I could tie them.

Soon the sun crept up and we were on the water...finding it mostly void of other fishers.

We selected a spot on our map to begin the day. A spot I had not fished before, but we had it on good authority that it was a prime spot. Our informant was correct...

We caught trout...and some odd fish called Red Horse Suckers...I wonder how they came up with that name? Here is my trophy RH Sucker (Chris kindly netted her for me).

Texas Parks and Wildlife biologist Steve Magnelia tells us (tongue in cheek) that we have a "world class Red Horse Sucker fishery on the Guad. This time of year that are spawning, and in some of the shallow areas of the river they can be seen stacked shoulder to shoulder in the current.

They are strong fish, and they like taking flies. And they are fun to catch.
Most of the sucker strikes were slower than trout, and they don;t tend to take the blistering runs tour usually do...but the largest one almost got me into my backing before we subdued her.

This one ran straight across the river from me and tried to swim up the roots of the Cypress tree you see to the right of Chris's shoulder.

I have now been dubbed "The Sucker King"; a rather dubious distinction.

Later at another location we had company in the form of three goats on an impossibly steep cliff opposite us on the river...you can just make them out in the photo.

Same goats with as good a zoom as my little camera could manage.

And yes, we found more fish...

In all we estimate we caught over 25 trout, and lost at least that many more to thrown flies and broken lines.

These Guadalupe trout may have been raised in Missouri, but they turn into true tail-kicking Texans within a couple days of being in the river.

Must be something in the water.

Tight Lines...

A Capitol Idea

2009-02-27T07:01:00.006-06:00

This week I became a lobbyist for a day. I have never been politically active, beyond voting in every election since I was 18, so I thought this would be a good opportunity to see the legislative engine here in Austin hum along.

Wednesday Feb 25th was Trout Unlimited day at the Texas state capitol. A contingent of 14 members of the Guadalupe River chapter of Trout Unlimited (including your correspondent) visited the offices of state senators and representatives, providing copies of the book "Rivers of Restoration" signed by the author.

Some facts that are not known by the general public about our beloved river and chapter were shared with aides to the elected officials (we didn't get to meet any of the legislators in person), and I wanted to share those facts here.

Canyon Lake was formed in 1964 when the Guadalupe River was dammed. Because the outflow of the dam comes from the bottom of the lake, the water is too cold for native warm water fish species to live for the first several miles below the dam. Texas wildlife officials were charged with replacing the lost fishing opportunity to the people of Texas.

Trout were the obvious solution, as they thrive in water temps below 65F. Several other similar fisheries (called "tailwater" fisheries) had been successful across the nation, but the Guad has the distinction of being the southernmost trout fishery in the United States. Stocking of trout began in 1968, with Lone Star Brewery being the first sponsor to pay fo the stocking.

Also in 1968, a group of forward looking conservationists formed the Guadalupe River chapter of Trout Unlimited. TU is a national organization dedicated to the conservation of cold water fisheries. In the years since forming, GRTU has become the largest chapter in the world, with over 4, 000 members; twice the size of the next largest chapter.

The Guad has another distinction...it has been named one of the top 100 trout streams in the United States.

Many folks have long enjoyed tubing the Guad in the summer, and it indeed is a treasure for that. But far fewer realize that in the winter, the trout fishery continues to provide revenue for the businesses in the area during a time when tourist dollars are harder to come by. Most trout fishing ceases by March, when the tubing and other water sports begin ramping up.

But as the old saying goes, whiskey is for drinkin', water is for fightin'. That is certainly true where the Guad is concerned, and especially in drought years like this one.

Without getting into the details, let's just say that there are more demands for water than there is water. Government agencies appointed to manage the water resources aren't above duplicity, and we have become the watchdogs of the river, to insure that the agencies manage the water appropriately.

Lakeside land and business owners of Canyon Lake are often at odds with TU, because we have negotiated a minimum flow agreement with the the Guadalupe-Blanco River Authority during the summer months, which insures at least 200 cubic feet per second of water flow through the dam. This keeps the river sufficiently cool for trout to survive for about 6 miles downstream. Tube rental businesses love it becuase their customers prefer floating in tubes rather than carrying them downriver.

The minimum flow agreement cause friction with lake property owners when they are unable to use their boat ramps and areas of the lake become dangerous to boat due to exposed hazards when the water level drops too low.

There have been charges of GBRA allowing too much water to be pumped out of the lake for other purposes and never making it through the dam, and various other real or imagined infringements on water rights.

Our goal of meeting with our lawmakers was simple...let them know who we are,what we do, and to raise their awareness of this rare gem of a river.

By the way, if you get the Outdoor channel, the Guad will be highlighted this weekend on Trout Unlimited's program "On the Rise". Check local listings, but here in Austin it airs late Friday night around 11:00P, and again Saturday morning at 8:00A. I have the DVR set...I have a date Saturday morning with the river.

Tight Lines...

Casting for Recovery

2009-02-16T22:29:00.004-06:00

The last few evenings I spent about 6 hours at my fly tying vise, cranking out new flies. Before I am done the number will be closer to about 24 hours.

These flies are quite special to me, because each is tied with a prayer. I will never fish them. I will probably never meet the ones who become the eventual owners. Perhaps they will fish them, perhaps not. Perhaps those who fish them will catch a fish, and perhaps not.

None of that really matters so much. These flies, tied with my meager abilities, are part of the healing process for a select group of breast cancer survivors.

Each year, one of my fellow members of the Guadalupe River chapter of Trout Unlimited, sends out a call for the fly tiers in the club to donate some flies to Casting For Recovery , a nonprofit group that introduces breast cancer survivors to fly fishing.

The ladies are given a weekend of fly fishing, complete with guides, gear, and lodging.

I tied flies for the retreats for two years before my own mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. It was caught early, and she made a full recovery. This will be my third year donating flies.

As I tie, I smile at the stories relayed to us about the reactions of the ladies when they receive their flies.

Some like the bright pink flies we tie as much for show as anything else. They love to put the pretty ones in the brims of their hats, not wanting to risk losing them in the river, or worse, getting them dirty.

But the story I cherish the most is the one that recalls how every time the flies are given out, tears are shed because the ladies realize that they were tied by someone who cared about them even though they never met.

I like to think that some of the good things we do generates good deeds by the recipients, and like the movie of a few years ago, we can pay if forward. Now that's change I can believe in.

If you know of a lady who you think might benefit from what Casting For Recovery offers, get them signed up. No experience is necessary, and the benefits can last a lifetime.

Tight Lines...

Blind Faith

2009-02-10T22:42:00.005-06:00

Moonlight was the only illumination needed. Shadows danced across the Texas brush country like phantoms from an old silent picture, for tonight there was no sound.

My eyes strained to make out the form of a wild hog in the darkness. With the flick of a red spotlight, the “hog” became a pile of rocks, or clump of cactus. My eyes and mind teased each other with visions each wanted to see.

Against the wall of my blind was my rifle, yet unbloodied. My hand involuntarily reached out to touch the smooth walnut stock. That old feeling of security and competence warmed me in the cool February night air.

Sixty yards in front of my blind, across a no man’s land of crumbled chocolate rock and all manner of thorned plants, was a stock tank…you can call it a pond if you aren’t from Texas.

There the water shrank into smaller circles daily with the persistent drought gnawing at the land like a dog worries a bone. Tracks of many animals were imprinted in the soft mud. There is the print of a coon…and over here a deer. These nearer to the edge are coyotes. Those depressions yonder are hog wallows, where swine come for their beauty treatments.

Being nearly midnight, I would have been flirting with the law had I been there when bucks were on the menu. But tonight is early February, and sane deer hunters are home in their warm comfortable beds.

I smile to myself, because I share a tryst with the woods, One that is inexplicable to those not familiar with sunrises over the duck marsh or sunsets in the deer woods. I struggle to help co workers understand why an educated and reasonably rational man such as I would climb into an elevated blind and spend over seven hours in the night just watching nature, when chances of taking game are relatively small. Perhaps it is for the same reason a man has trouble explaining why he loves who he loves. Sometimes it is just so, and explanations are not needed…for they will not be understood by those who don’t care, nor matter to those who can’t see.

On this night the quarry is the blue collar animal of the Americas, the feral hog. Feral hogs at one point in their ancestry were domesticated. But they escaped from their wire prisons and bred in the brush country just like the Longhorn cattle did during the Civil War. And just like those Longhorns, the hog’s progeny grew up tough, wary, and wild.

With corn scattered to bait the hogs in, there is now nothing to do but wait. But there is no boredom here. There is wonder, hardscrabble beauty, honesty….and silence. Not a breath of air stirs, not a rustle of leaves disturbs my fortress of solitude. I am alone.

Being alone is a rare commodity today. We are social creatures to be sure, but even the most social need to reconnect with their roots. Time alone does not need to mean time lonely, for in solitude, chaos can turn to order, and turmoil can melt into purpose.

Perhaps the hunt is an excuse to enter my fortress of solitude, where my thoughts can soar, and my soul can be stripped bare of false pretense before my creator. A simple stroll in the cool of the evening as our ancestor Adam used to take.

Perhaps the hunt is a ritual that allows me to be social in camp with men I would trust my life to, then to move to solitude to contemplate the blessings of having such men to call friends.

Maybe the hunt is a right of passage, or an escape from reality, or therapy. Or perhaps a connection with our ancestral past, in the way homebound dogs howl at the moon when the wolf DNA in their marrow boils.

Of these things the philosophers can debate. But for me this place, this ritual, this pilgrimage is intertwined with faith, because here I can simply commune with my Father.

I hope that my view from the blind is one that always sees beyond the seen to the unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal. (2 Corinthians 4:18b)

For those who never have had blind faith…pity.

Tight Lines....

Ballast

2009-01-23T18:44:00.008-06:00

My young hands gripped the sides of the aluminum fishing boat as we hugged the shoreline to escape the horrific winds. I had never ridden a bucking bronc before, but I was sure that this was pretty darn close.

I was scared. Normally I loved a good thunderstorm as much as the next kid, preferring to watch them from inside a safe and dry building. Being on a lake during a Tennessee mountain squall wasn't really in my plans for the day. But I had been pressed into duty due to my unique skill set.

You see, mom doesn't swim. Never has, unless you count the baptistery incident that we still are not allowed to speak of. Ever. My brother was a toddler, and my sister...well you know how dads are about daughters and protecting them.

So that left me. I could kinda swim. And if I were lost to Davy Jones' locker, little brother could carry on the family name. A very logical choice. Oh, and I had one other qualification. I was "husky".

When I was boy, "husky" was the term used by mothers to refer to the jean size needed for their un-slim sons . Political correctness before the term was coined.

All of this to say I could be counted on in this tempest to provide ballast.

This was the final day of a family vacation to Center Hill Lake in Tennessee. We stayed that week in the lakeside cabin, and for a boy who loved to fish it had been heaven. We caught lots of fish, had been in boats from see to can't see, and had a fantastic time.

We didn't have a boat of our own, so we rented one down the lake at the marina. We dropped dad off there the first day and he brought the boat by water up to the cabin, a trip the little six horsepower motor made in about half an hour.

Now with our vacation on it's last day, the time had come to return the faithful little boat to it's owners. Unfortunately as we packed the car and made ready, a strong storm gathered over the lake. Winds began to blow with an intensity that would not allow dad to keep the boat safely on track, as he had to head directly into the wind. The wind would lift the bow of the boat and threaten to flip it over.

Enter "the ballast". I found myself perched in the bow of the boat to weigh it down against the gale. Dad was in the stern manning the small outboard motor. We began the painfully slow push against the storm.

The small boat was pitched at what felt like a forty-five degree angle to the water. I was sure I would soon be tumbled back into the stern or into the lake. Dad hugged the shoreline for as much protection from the wind as possible, but at one point we had to cross over to the opposite shore, completely exposed to the storm's fury.

It was then that I noticed my father's face. I was facing the stern, but until that moment I had been focusing on the wind, waves, rain and clouds. But right in front of me in the middle of the storm was my faithful dad...face calm, jaw resolute. At that moment I knew we would be fine, though the storm continued its assault.

Sometimes when I go through storms of life, I do the same thing. I focus on the turmoil, the noise, and the fear. But sometimes, when my grip begins to fail, and I am unable to help myself, I see the face of my Father...calm and resolute at the helm. Though the storm may continue its assault, and I may not be able to see where I am heading, I know I can trust the Father to faithfully pilot me through.

Tight Lines....

Who Needs Pictures?

2009-01-20T17:04:00.008-06:00

I recently received a wonderful gift from my father. My uncle had taken several hours of super 8 film that had been shot by my grandfather in the early 1970's and converted it to DVD. Dad mailed a 2 DVD set to me a few weeks ago.

There is no sound, and in many cases the picture quality is poor. Some of the people I don't know, but presumably they are distant relatives.

Encompassed in the production is a road trip to Monterey, CA, where my uncle was stationed with the USAF at the time. Grandpa included shots of Pebble Beach (he was an avid golfer), and a lot of the seashore. Beautiful place, Monterey.

Also included were stops at places I long to visit but have not. Yellowstone, Mt Rushmore, and the Black Hills among them. Making cameos are my cousins and my siblings, the latter shown above.

Most interesting to me however was to see moving images of myself around the ages of 11 to 13.
Before military service, before marriage, before divorce, before children, before college, or even high school.

Life then was simpler for me to be sure. Being of simple mind it isn't hard to go back to those days when my biggest concerns were if I was going to be able to play baseball after school, and if I was going to get to go fishing or hunting during the coming weekend.

No job, no boss, no taxes, no responsibilities (other than taking out the trash and feeding the dog). No problems. Only possibilities.

Maybe I have given problems too much of my attention. Maybe it's time to give possibilities more consideration.

Tight Lines...

Live and Love...

2009-01-13T18:42:00.008-06:00

Gentle readers, the recent death of my former brother in law has given me pause. I suppose this is as it should be; death is certainly a reason to evaluate life and the choices we are making as we live.

I find unfortunately that many times my life is on auto-pilot. Busy with the things that need to be done as a father, step-father, grandfather, spouse, employee, minister...you get the picture. I suspect your own life has a similar tilt...at least that would put me in good company.

So much time spent in life that is without intent...just rolling along. Words of a song come to mind...

"With life , you never know,
When you're comin' up to the end of the road;
So what do we do then;
With tragedy around the bend?
We live, We love;
We forgive, and never give up
'Cause the days we are given are a gift from above;
So today we remember to live and to love"
- Superchick

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mCxZvD_wZ6I
(sorry, they had the embed disabled on the video...but take a listen....)

Tight Lines...

Passing

2009-01-09T18:26:00.004-06:00

Today a mother said goodbye to her son...siblings said goodbye to a brother; children said goodbye to an uncle who was only 39 years. old.

Death is a very mysterious thing. The range of emotions that one experiences as you watch life ebb is hard to describe. Where moments before life had been, now it is gone, never to return. Odd...so very odd.

Never again will we see him at Christmas, or Thanksgiving, or on his birthday...though we expect to see him walk through the door at any moment. He was too young, too vibrant, to full of life to be gone. But he is...yet we feel like we are dreaming. It just doesn't seem real or possible.

Yet in all this we have hope. Because a savior paid the penalty of sin and death...and death has no dominion over us any longer.