WEEK 17

LANDLOCKED SALMON
I have recently been honored by Project Healing Waters to create a commemorative print that they will be presenting as a “Thank You” gift to many of their volunteers across the nation. What you see here is a detail shot of a new Landlocked Salmon (Maine) drawing that will be featured on one of the prints. I’ll show you the entire print as soon as it’s completed.

NEST LAKE

Uncle George and the Designated Driver
I was a year late in getting my drivers license and that may have worked to my advantage. You know, I was far more mature than the average 16 year old. At 17, as anyone that knew me would testify, I was fully capable of driving a car full of aging anglers across two states to their favorite fishin' hole. Right. But that was my job. As the only young, driving age relative of the aforementioned group I was selected. Uncle George and his cronies had made a yearly pilgrimage in the month of June, to Wilmar, Minnesota to a cabin between Green and Nest Lakes...a place known as Ye Old Mill Inn.

We arrived the day before bass season was to open. There was a guy named Bowen, a doctor named Secrist, a business man named Coast, Uncle George and myself. We had the entire month to fish the area lakes. On the drive up I heard all the stories. Green Lake for Smallies, Nest Lake for Largemouth and more lakes for Walleye than I can remember. Their stories...spiced with a nip or two of Canadian Club...had set the stage for what was sure to be a memorable trip. A memorable trip as long as I didn’t remember everything. (It was suggested that one in my position would benefit by a selective memory when relating the details of our trip to specific family members.)

Day one was a toss-up. Which lake to try? Uncle George and I headed out on Nest to give the bigmouths a try and the rest motored out across Green Lake. Green, as seen on the map, was nearly a perfect circle. Much larger than most of the lakes in the area, in addition to being a fine smallmouth fishery it was known by the locals as a great spot for ice surfing. Two guys, decked out in ice skates and holding a sheet between them, would catch the wind and fly across its frozen surface. It sounded like great fun but the thought of Minnesota winters and howling winds had no pull on me.

To be just a waterfall away from Green Lake, Nest was it’s complete opposite. While Green was wide open, gravel bottomed Smallmouth country, Nest was ideal Largemouth habitat. Multiple coves, lily pads and tons of structure. It was truly a top-water paradise. Although I had brought my trusty Garcia Mitchell 250, Uncle George presented me with an Ambassador 5000 bait casting rig and told me it was time I learned to use it. My first experience with bait casting went pretty well, and I soon had the hang of it...gently thumbing the spool, for the most part I was backlash free. Casting Creek Chub Darters, Skip Jacks and Hula Poppers, we landed bass after bass. These were not Florida Largemouths. In these cold waters, with their relatively short growing seasons, a six pounder was huge. They averaged probably 3-4 pounds. We sampled a number of coves and as long as we could keep the dogfish off our lines, we found the bass to be willing in all of them. The guys out on Green had no luck at all.

For the next two weeks I guided, in turn, each of the others around Nest Lake. Occasional days, or at least mornings, were spent on a few of the other lakes trying out the walleye fishing...mostly to no avail. Nest Lake was where the action was. One evening about sundown Uncle George summoned me to the boat for a trip up to the headwaters of Nest. He produced two small wooden and wire mesh boxes...each with a slit inner tube top and said we were going frog hunting. With him in the bow and me at the motor we set out. Now, Nest Lake was not over-run with boaters...particularly at this late hour, so I set the throttle to the max and pointed the boat to the west. About five minute into the run I saw two frantically waving arms above Uncle George's head. Note to Alan: Never, never, never drive a boat in a perfectly straight line. We missed the guy by inches.

Arriving at the headwaters, I beached the boat and with frog boxes in hand we headed into the thick weeds bordering the water. The place was alive with leopard frogs! We filled each box to the top and headed back to the cabin...zig zagging all the way.

If you ever have the chance to fish for Largemeouth in lily pads and you can get your hands on some live Leopard frogs...DO IT! I have never had so much fun fishing. Going weedless, we'd run the hook up through their lower and upper lips and aim for the lily pads. The frogs had been told by their mommas that there were creatures in the lake that would eat them, so they had no intention of leaving the safety of the pad. The frogs were well schooled, but we had other ideas. The battle for safety was the prelude to the REALLY fun part. We'd pull them off the pads and they'd scurry back on. As you can imagine, this caused a little commotion that was not unnoticed by the bass. You'd see the pads rippling as the bass converged from all directions, and if they didn't happen to arrive while the frog was in the water they'd blast up through the pad knocking the poor critter skyward. To see one, two and sometimes three bass rocketing through the air, mouths agape, all after the same frog...well, it was amazing.

Three weeks into the trip we finally heard a good report on the Smallmouth fishing. There was a submerged gravel bar about five miles across Green Lake and the smallies were said to be congregating there. The next morning we bought a minnow bucket full of shinners and and set off for the bar. Two or three passes across it and we had it figured out. We'd cast a lightly weighted minnow at one end of the bar and drift to the other. For the next hour we caught one after the other and none of them were less than six pounds. With each hook-up we had a Nantucket Sleigh Ride as the bass jumped and towed us away from the bar. I've yet to catch so many strong fish in one outing. Worn out and hungry we decided that breakfast sounded pretty good so we motored over to a boat dock and cafe to grab a waffle or two. As we arrived we were met at the dock by a group of guys who asked us what we were using for bait. Turns out they had been watching us through binoculars as they ate their waffles>. Well, as we ate and watched, an entire flotilla of boats headed to the bar...effectively ending our envolvement in the smallmouth feeding frenzy.

Such was my first Minnesota experience. Guiding, fish cleaning, babysitting and some amazing fishing...and I guess I did pretty well at it, for I assumed the same duties for the next two years. Just don't ask me for more details. As Sergeant Schultz would say, "I know nothing!"

WEEK 16

So...here is the color version of last weeks pen and ink image. It's ultimate usage is still up in the air, but at least I'm happy with it. With a brown trout (and my apologies to the fisherman on the coast) and a rainbow, which are both very common in our mountain region, and the state bird, the Cardinal...along with the state flower, the dogwood...I hope it's a good rendition of the beauty that our state has to offer.

FLY FISHING TEAM USA...Help needed

My friend and Project Healing Waters co-worker, Ryan Harman, has asked me to put the word out that judges are needed this weekend for the US Fly Fishing Team regional qualifier to be held on the Nantahala tomorrow and Sunday. I know this is very short notice, but if you are interested in rubbing shoulders with a few of the best fly fishers in the nation, including Josh Stephens, Eddie Pinkston and Brian Capsay...please give Chris Lee a call at 828-269-6529.

WEEK 15

Here is a project that I’ve been working on for the past week or so. This is the original layout, which may be modified a bit as I move on to the coloring stage of the process. Its intended purpose is still in limbo, but if it works out as I hope, I’ll be doing some other states as well. I’ll be trying out a few different color schemes and hope to have a finished product in about a week.

Somebody please help the boy!

Did you ever get yourself into a situation or place and wonder how you could get out of it? A situation where you REALLY had to rely on some help...from somebody, somewhere?
There’s no message here (unless you want there to be)...I just thought the picture was hilarious.

WEEK 14

Ballpoint Brookie

I figured out weeks ago that if I was only going to post "finished" artwork here on the blog, that I would never manage to get 52 images posted during the year. So, from here on out I will be showing some of the behind the scenes work that goes into creating a fish illustration. It is very rare that I grab a piece of paper and start an image without doing a few sketches to get the feel of my subject matter...more often there are numerous pencil or pen sketches done before I begin what I hope to be - eventually - a finished product. Todays image is a good example. This was done today during my lunch break at the office. Will this quick little drawing ever become finished artwork? I have no idea, but it was fun to do...and with each pen stroke I really do seem to learn a thing or two.

WEEK 13

Bull Doggin'
I started this one, intending it to be a companion piece to the Snake River Cutthroat and had planned to title it as "Madison River Rainbow" in the same calligraphy style as the Cutthroat.
But as sometimes happens I ended up going another direction with it. I decided to go ahead and color this one. I guess I could go back to the original plan. Oh well, as usual...it’ll have to set around in my studio for a while before I decide. Confused? Me too, but that’s my normal state of being.

PAVLOV'S FISH

ONCE IN A BLUE MOON. Many of you have heard about the movie...some might have even seen it by now. According to Mid Current Fly Fishing News, the movie “follows an attempt by some New Zealand fly fishers to track down what can loosely be called a ‘mouse hatch.’ The idea of hitting the timing just right – when an explosion in the rodent population puts the biggest trout on the feed – leads to landing some very nice fish on big mouse patterns in stunningly beautiful surroundings.”

Well, that brings to mind a story...a story that I’ll tell if you promise not to pass it on to PETA. Once upon a time in a prior life I worked in the egg business. A very large egg business. No, the eggs were normal sized, but they sold gazillions of them all over the good ol’ USA.

As we all know eggs come from chickens...girl chickens. For about a year, each of the girls pops out, on average, a little over one egg a day. After that their production goes down they aren’t good for anything other than Campbell’s Soup, so they’re replaced. Well, to satisfy the market demand for eggs and to replace the worn out layers that aren't hitting their quotas anymore, it takes a lot of girl chickens. This company had millions of them. And to get millions of girl chickens you have to go through a lot of eggs. That meant they had to have a hatchery. And since (thankfully) science hadn’t figured out a way to produce only girl chickens, the hatchery produced a lot of boy chickens too. Can you tell the difference in the boys and the girls at one day of age? Neither could I, but there was a family of Chinese folks that were very good at it.

On a regular schedule they would show up at the hatchery to “sex the chickens.” With trays and trays of day old chicks before them, they would grab one, turn it over to inspect the business end and pass judgment. The girls went into another tray and the boys went into 5 gallon plastic buckets. At the end of the day the hens were shuffled off to a rearing facility and the boys –the cockerels – were carted off to THE POND.

A stones throw from the hatchery was THE POND. A pond of about ten acres that was full of huge channel cats and bass. By now you’ve figured out how they got so big. For the sake of the faint hearted, I will avoid going into more details, but suffice it to say that “Pavlov’s Fish” knew when it was dinner time.

Imagine a John Boat. Imagine that John Boat filled with 5 gallon buckets of lively yellow feathered vittles, and imagine that boat making 5 or 6 trips across THE POND on feeding day. I know you’ve seen film of an ocean feeding frenzy...well, the only thing missing was the gulls. The “Chicken Hatch” was a sight to behold.

I never did try to tie up a replica "match the hatch" fly. Didn’t need to, as a yellow Jitterbug got the job done just fine.

OKAY...I'll make it a little easier

Bob Clouser used his Kinky Clouser, along with the prototype bass rod he has developed for Temple Fork Outfitters to catch this beauty. It was my honor to try to do it justice.

Wonder who caught this nice smallie...

This is my most recent commission piece. Brian Shumaker of Susquehanna River Guides approached me at the VA Fly Fishing Festival with the idea of producing a replica piece for one of his favorite clients. He said the angler had caught a very nice smallmouth on a recent outing, and Brian wanted to surprise him with the artwork.

The reference photos were sent my way and I began the project. I finished it a couple of weeks ago but have not been able to post it because the angler has been out of town and hadn’t seen the art until yesterday.

Can you guess who the angler is? There are two very important clues in the piece.

CALLAWAY GARDENS

Shirley and I traveled down to Georgia over the weekend for a multi-purpose trip. Son-in-law Chad was graduating with his Masters Degree from UGA on Saturday - which was supposedly the purpose of the trip - but it was also a chance to see the grandkids, and finally, and not without its own degree of importance, Chad and I planned to fish for “shoalies” on Flint River.

The graduation ceremony was nice on Saturday. We were certainly proud seeing Chad get his masters and it was also very interesting to see the UGA campus and its great facilities. As a lifelong Oklahoma Sooners fan, I have a running battle with Chad and the grandkids about the quality of the Dawgs football program. Those poor children have been so brainwashed, that I have thought many times about calling social services to file a child abuse report. It is so bad that they even think that slobbering overweight bulldog is cute! Anyway, as impressive as their facilities are, I was not swayed. Perhaps I’ll root for them...at least until they progress to the level of OU and become a threat.

Chad and I had been watching the radar all week and feared that the Flint would be blown-out so our backup plan was to fish the big lake at Callaway Gardens, but not until we made a visual inspection of the Flint. Sunday morning before dawn we headed for the river. I had discovered that my non-res GA license had expired so before leaving I quickly logged onto the state’s website to renew it. No such luck – the site was down. It was a short drive to the Flint and the odds of finding a place that was open and selling licenses on a Sunday morning at 6:30 were slim to none. “None” won out....so it was off to Callaway, where a license isn’t required.

And of course Callaway hadn’t opened yet. (They’re more into golf, bike riding and butterfly viewing than fishing, which is amazing, due to the quality of the fisheries on the property.) We went and grabbed a bite to eat and returned at 9 when the gate opened. In our rented john boat we motored across the lake to a likely looking bank. (The lower right water in the photo above) The weather was perfect...heavy overcast with a slight breeze out of the south. I decided to start with a Callaway standard – the Stealth Bomber in black. One of the guides said we’d better “go deep” if we expected to catch anything, but looking at the weather, I thought otherwise. On my third cast I hooked up with a decent largemouth...and just a few casts later the water erupted with a very decent one. A few moments later I reached for my new Lippa tool and pulled a largemouth of around three pounds into the boat. Of course neither of us had a camera, but trust me...it was a pretty fish indeed. The day was looking very promising.

I continued on with the Stealth Bomber to no avail...eventually switching to one of Walt Cary’s famous poppers to get in on the bluegill action along with Chad. We spent the next 4 hours landing bluegill after bluegill...but not one more bass! Still, it was great day...and a fantastic way to celebrate Chad’s educational accomplishment.

We fished all the likely looking water...deep banks and shallow coves...in the wind and not. As the day progressed and warmed we had good success going deeper with Rubber Legged Dragons and poor luck with the MinnKota. While I was doing the guiding I managed to get the prop completely encased in moss and when Chad’s turn came around he managed to get his fly line wrapped around it. But those are the things that fishing trips are made of. If we’re really honest, all of our so called “perfect days” had their share of calamities too.

BIG RIVER

As I have ventured to my immediate west for a couple of fishing trips this year, as usual I have taken a gander at Google Earth to get the lay of the land. From North Georgia, clear up to Northeast PA. the western side of the Appalachians looks like a wrinkled and squished together piece of tin foil from a hundred miles in space. Row after row of closely spaced ridges running the length of the range...it must have been a sight to behold when those mountains were formed! The collision, the pressure, the violence... it’s like the ground was turned on it’s edge 90 degrees.

On Sunday, after the very successful South Holston Fly Fishing Festival I walked about fifty feet from the Angler’s Rest Cabin to the river. The water had finally cleared and gone down to a wadable level and I was going to give it a try. My first sight of the river bottom looked just like the view from space and I knew that these old knees of mine were going to be tested. After falling for the first time in my fishing career last summer on the Toccoa, I tend to get a little wobbly on an extremely irregular stream bed. I had borrowed a wading staff just in case, but I wasn’t prepared for what I had before me. The rock base seemed to run for the width of the river and it looked like millions of different sized industrial saw blades stacked side by side.

I had reviewed the Guest Book at the cabin the night before and had seen the notes left by Bob Clouser, Joan Wulff and many other less famous anglers, so I just naturally figured that this stretch of the river was prime territory and that if I could manage to stay upright I might catch a fish or two. WRONG. I was skunked.

You should have been here yesterday was the story of the day. But of course, I was busy at the festival meeting some great folks and selling some art. I was told that I missed the “squirt” on Saturday. I said what? “The squirt, you know...the squirt,” said our host. Turns out the “squirt” is just that...it’s a small and short release of water from the dam that only lasts for about an hour, and it gets the fish excited and hungry. Not enough water to run the fishermen away, but enough to trigger a feeding frenzy and provide an hour or two of action.

So I missed it. I guess I could blame being skunked on that fact, but that would be untruthful...and as I have committed to a policy of truth telling here on the blog, I can’t do that. (Yes, Jerry...all the truth all the time.) The reality is that I was out of my element. Being used to fishing streams that I can easily cast across, I didn’t know what to do with this behemoth of a river. I tried my usual stuff and even tried to adapt to the local experts techniques...all to no avail. I did manage to hook one but it was a very brief affair. Our romance lasted just seconds before she broke it off.

But I'll be back, thanks to a gracious standing invitation from our hosts, Jim and Bob. There's even been talk of some drift boat action which should improve my odds dramatically....especially with my two hosts in the boat. Yes, I'll be back...especially if they can arrange a squirt or two.

WEEK 12...SoHo ART

Last Friday I mentioned that I was working on a print for the South Holston Fly Fishing Fest...well this is it. I finished up the calligraphy on it last night. If you can make it to the event I hope you’ll stop by my booth at take a look at the real thing. As a reminder it’s this Saturday at Rivers Way and from all indications it will be a great festival. In addition to the art on display there will be a day full of demonstrations on the river, fly tying seminars, great food and bluegrass pickin’ and of course, the chance to wet a line in one of the premier fisheries in the east.

And as usual, if you can’t make to the SoHo on Saturday and are interested in the print...all it takes to get a signed and ready to frame print headed your way is a phone call to 828-290-3730 or an email to clearwatermemories@gmail.com

SPAVINAW CREEK

Got an email from River Geezer that got me to thinkin...why am I drawn to the clearwater of mountain streams?

I can start by blaming it on mom and dad. As I’ve mentioned before, my very first memories are of creek banks. Seeing old black and white photos of me in a stroller of sorts, parked on a gravel bar, with dad in the background casting a fly, I have to believe that my addiction was pre-ordained. But it wasn’t just trout streams back then. It was anywhere with clear water and a fish or two. Dad used to carry one of those canvas creels and on the bass streams, on days when the fly rod was given up for spinning gear, he’d have one of those small minnow buckets slung over the other shoulder chock full of catfish minnows. There were a lot of days like that.

Catfish Minnows. We used to call them that before the Christmas in 1965 when I got what is still one of my prized possessions, A.J. McClane's Fishing Encyclopedia. I never could figure out why we never managed to catch, or even see, a full grown version of these little black catfish, but as always A.J. had the answer. We were catching full grown versions. They were Mad Toms.

Every night after the sun went down and the sky was at its darkest we’d seine the rapids for them. The technique was pretty simple. With one of my brothers on one end of the seine and me on the other, we would position ourselves just downstream of dad. With a stout tree branch in hand and facing us, dad would walk quickly backwards (upstream) while doing all he could to upset the gravel with the stick. My brother and I would follow right behind him, making sure to catch everything that he had stirred up. Each pass would only be for ten feet or so, and if we were lucky, in addition to twenty pounds of flint we’d have a minnow or two for our effort. The seine would be laid out on the gravel bar and with the light of the Coleman Lantern we’d investigate our haul. While catfish minnows were the ultimate prize, we’d usually get a hellgrammite or two, a few sculpins and miscellaneous other minnows and bugs. I was never into hellgrammites, and I still can’t imagine putting a cricket on a hook. Those things are bugs!

As long as the catfish minnow was alive, there wasn’t a bass in the creek that could resist it. Hooked through the lips, we’d cast the minnow across and downstream, with just enough weight to slow the swing. The minnows knew what they were in for and would do all they could to burrow under the rocks to escape the bass, and as the water was gin clear it was easy to see the bass rooting them out. One minnow...one cast...one bass. And if lucky, the minnow would survive for another go around. Beautiful little creek bass. We called them “Brownies.”

There were always rumors that the creek held brown trout, and perhaps it did somewhere...maybe over towards Arkansas in its headwaters. We just figured that the locals didn't know a trout from a bass.

Ive got to get back to Spavinaw Creek. I'll take a seine with me...or maybe not. Maybe I'll just give the old black muddler a whirl. Either way, it'll be a walk down memory lane. I'll rise early at dawn and wade into the stream of my childhood. I'll splash the clear cool water in my face just like I did some fifty years ago. I'll wade upstream from Beatty Creek, casting toward the eastern bank. I'll kick up a few rocks and hope to see one of my old black friends. And if the big pool is still intact at the bend, I'll sit and replay a few scenes form the past. There'll be pretty girl diving in and hungry bass beneath her.