PROJECT HEALING WATERS

Project Healing Waters has just added my art to the “Buy Stuff and Help Us Out” section of their website! Needless to say, I am proud to partner with them on this new fundraising effort, and I hope you’ll jump over there and check it out. For this special project I’ve done a series of four prints...a Brown, a Rainbow, a Brook and a Cutthroat...and I’ll be donating ½ of the sales price from each purchase to their great organization.

If you are familiar with their ongoing work with our veterans you know what a good cause it is...and if you’ve been considering a donation to support their efforts, here’s your chance to do so and in return you get something nice to display on your wall.

I spent a couple of nights this week drawing this Rainbow, and sometime over the next week I hope to bring some color to it and finish it up. The week has also been spent trying to lay out a schedule for this Spring and Summers' shows. I know that I'll do all of the ones from last year and I might be adding a new one or two as well.

Scheduling the shows is the easy part. Now I've got to plan some new artwork...

BWO

There is something about the classics. Be they movies, music, paintings, architecture...whatever. Even trout flies. Do you recall seeing a plate of classic dry flies when you first started tying? And as determined as you were to tie them all...you never got it done. Well, I never did anyway. But those images were fixed forever in your mind. Such it is with me and the Blue Winged Olive...a tempter with few peers.

Meanwhile...

It snowed about 14 inches the week before Christmas and the daytime temps have stayed below freezing...until today. For nearly a month our yard has been encased in ice. Completely covered in compacted and hard as a rock snow. No more “ice climbing” just to get from the drive into the house. Yes, yesterday the sun was out and it hit fifty degrees. Winter is over; daffodils are getting antsy and so am I. The hatches are coming and wet wading is in vogue again. Don’t I wish.

Hopefully this respite from Alaskan weather will be permanent and I can again start accepting fishing invitations.

I will look back on this year as the one where I swore off winter fishing forever. As one ages, things change. Especially one’s tolerance for the cold.

My buddy Mike, (who is obviously still a youngster) over at his Mike’s Gone Fishin'... Again blog has just posted a great piece about winter fishing, and the quite solitude that it can provide. But as beautiful as his words are and as stunning as his photography is, there aint no way that I’ll ever again be a practioner of that sort of fishing. I’m done with it.

I could say that I’ve caught so many trout over the years that catching just a few more on a cold day means nothing to me.
I could say a lot of things. I’m done with it. Don’t even ask me next year.

“You say they’re biting? Now?...but it's too cold! Yeah, I’m coming. Where’s my coat!”

PROPER STREAM ETIQUITTE

(Editor’s Note: While many if not most of you consider Alan’s recollections and fish tales to be mostly fiction, they mostly aren’t. The silliness that follows definitely is...maybe.)

Those of you inclined to visit various TU Chapters on a regular basis, and those of you that hang out on the fly fishing forums may have become involved with the debate about fly fishing etiquette. To be specific, the debate about who has the right of way on a trout stream....the upstream fishing dry fly elitist, or the lowly knuckle dragging (I bet they are fishing with corn) downstream angler.

Not to stir the pot further, but who cares? I have yet to see a One-Way sign posted on any of the waters that I frequent, and besides that, the idea that anyone traipsing up – or down – through my favorite pool has some kind of “right-of-way” privilege is preposterous. I’m more concerned with, “What are you doing in my pool in the first place!”

I can’t count the times that after driving countless miles to my favorite water; after hauling my stuff from the trunk and luggin’ it to the creek...that I find some slub that I don’t even know sitting on my rock...fishing my pool. What has happened to manners? The coarsening of America has crossed the line.

Short of putting up a sign (and believe me, I know how to paint me a sign) what must I do? On any given weekend I am there. Any casual observer knows it’s my spot. You can see the little hollowed out place I’ve made for my cooler and if you look up and to the left of that you’ll see the nail in the sycamore where I hang my provisions, so as to keep them away from the little crawly things. And if you haven’t figured out what that perfectly carved out can shaped depression is for...well, you’ve been spending too much time readin’ American Angler and other such high-falutin’ rags instead of catchin’ fish. There I sit all day (unless I’m napping) just having myself a good time, casting and sittin’ and waiting for a fish to bite. I know there are fish in that pool ‘cause I’ve seen some of you wadin’ and walkin’ types catch them right under my nose. And I know that I can catch them too, cause you see, I’m all about patience. But my patience wears a little thin when you’ve grabbed my spot. It’s my spot and everyone knows it.

I recall a time about June of last year when a carload of young women had set up camp at my spot. I was outraged. Not only had they overtaken my hole, but they weren’t even fishing! Nope, they were sun bathin’ and causing a commotion like you’ve never seen. In no time at all, right there in front of them, waist deep in the river, lined up shoulder to shoulder and mumblin’ to themselves, was at least a dozen Orvis outfitted dandies...slobberin’ all over themselves and staring at the women folk. You can’t tell me that commotion didn’t stir up the fish.

No sir, that kind of crowd, with nothing on their minds but fighting for a better view and the impure thoughts that followed, couldn’t have cared less about disturbin’ the water. Even if I had run them and the girls out, I doubt I’d have caught anything anyway, so I just sat myself down in the midst of the girls, so as to protect ‘em if things got out of hand. I sat there for a good long time too. Even shared my Vi-enna sausages and crackers with the ladies.

About sundown the girls noticed that they were about tanned-up and headed for the house, leaving me there to direct the traffic. The guys that remembered which direction they came from were easy to deal with, but the others put on quite a show; bumping into each other, falling in over the tops of their rubber pants and cussin’ each other to no end. I finally had to lay down the law and play traffic cop. Everyone wearing a proper old fashioned fly vest was directed to move away upstream and those wearing those Disneyworld tourist purses, I mean fanny packs...or those new fangled necklaces with the little thingies attached...was told to head downstream.

So, lookin’ back on that episode (which I often do), maybe there’s somethin’ to be said for this etiquette stuff. Maybe I’ll start me a club and we’ll create a new etiquette. Might even start up a website to promote the proper behavior. RULE #1...stay outta my spot!

WINTER FISHING

Our recent heavy snows have reminded me of the essentials needed to successfully fish our local waters in severe winter weather. All of us have had occasions – perhaps as recent as our last storm – when we have had to cancel our fly fishing plans due to inclement weather. Instead of spending a good day on the stream we have opted to recline before a climate and resource destroying fireplace and a watch a silly game where grown men throw a ball around in tight pants on television. Or worse, spending the day shoveling the walkway and drive for the little woman.

With proper preparation there is no need for this to happen, especially since there is such a ready source of products available to make our wintertime ventures more enjoyable.

Let’s start with the basics.
Track System for Kubota RTV 900 Utility Vehicle
You will need this to get you to the stream and to haul additional essentials.
$7395 (Assuming you already have the RTV 900 Utility Vehicle)

Herman Nelson BT – 400 Mirage Desert Wind Portable Heater
To be strategically placed and fired up just upwind of your selected pool prior to entering the water.
$1,900.00 for the budget minded, on eBay, used.

Coast Guard approved Mustang Ultimate Ice Rescue Suit
Combines the robustness of the Tactical Operations Dry Suit with the high visibility and padding needed in swift water rescues. $946.00

Electric Pet Deterrent Fence Controller (for your Fly Rod)
Effectively eliminates line icing. The term “Tight Lines” is for salutations only. Do not be concerned with that pesky electricity stuff... graphite fly rods have a very low resistivity ranging from 9 to 40 uqm, which is essentially zero, insuring a relatively safe method of fly delivery.
$29.95... Or just use the one you use to keep your spouse under control.

To equip yourself with just these basics you have only spent a little over ten thousand dollars, plus whatever shipping costs would be involved. A small price to pay to insure a comfortable day on the stream. And if my math is accurate and you achieve the average wintertime catch rate, that comes to something like an expenditure of, well, about ten thousand dollars per fish.

And an additional benefit to being properly outfitted: With the noise generated by the portable heater, you will not be distracted by wildlife of any sort, and more importantly, you can rest assured that you’ll have the stream to yourself as those without proper ear protection will surely seek other venues.

Regarding tactics, I recommend fishing deep...very deep. And very noisily. As trout, during severe weather enter into a dormant state it is important to wake them from their slumber. As there is little chance that the trout will be in the mood to eat anything once woken, avoid all attempts at “hatch matching” and revert instead to the tried and true “Hellbender.” With its weight and broad deep diving bill, coupled with its awesome treble hooks, you increase your chances of not only waking, but of actually “catching” a fish. You will find that a strike indicator is unnecessary. If snagging, I mean, if this sort of fishing is not to your liking and if the fishing is particularly slow, you will also want to consider chunking rocks into the stream from time to time. Big rocks.

As a final cautionary note, please be aware that under such severe conditions one needs to keep hydrated throughout the day. Many have found that Absolut 100 is perfectly suited to the flask, I mean task. Not only is it best consumed in a near frozen state, but achieving that proper temperature will require no auxiliary refrigeration equipment.

Editors note: In normal fashion, the writer totally ignored his own advice and accepted an invitation today from son-in-law Chad to join him for a day of fishing in north Georgia on Duke's Creek. Leaving out of south Georgia at an ungodly hour and a temperature of 28 degrees, they arrived at the stream to a temperature of 22 degrees and blowing snow. Finding the temperature at the check in station to be a toasty 74 degrees, the author elected to remain inside as Chad and his buddy Brad headed for the stream. Totally unprepared, the author remained ensconsed in the warmth for approximately 3 hours until the temperature rose to a high for the day...of freezing...32 degrees.

Upon entering the stream, the author attempted to lure its inhabitant for approximately 20 minutes...all the while considering the benefits that could be derived from setting himself on fire.

At the end of the day there was only one photograph worth exhibiting...a photo of one of Chad's two fish. This one being of particular interest as the fish was heard to demand his immediate release, stating something like..."Please sir, please, please, please put me back in the warmth of that 35 degree water!!!"

WOOLLY BUGGER

The Woolly Bugger and I go back a long ways...further back than its invention, in fact. Growing up in the Ozarks, no serious angler would be caught on a stream (of any type, fishing for just about any variety of piscatorial inhabitants) without the forerunner of the Bugger – the Woolly Worm in his or her possession. Sometime in the late 60’s someone decided that they could enhance the original by adding a marabou tail and the Bugger was born. I keep my fly book stocked with both varieties in all sorts of color combinations. If it was suddenly decreed that fly fishers would only be allowed one fly in their arsenal, my choice would be this one.

MERRY CHRISTMAS !!!

With Brother Bruce’s patient tutelage I have come up with a logo for my Clearwater Memories business. I had downloaded Photoshop a while back but have been too intimidated by it to attempt any projects. If you haven’t guessed by now, I have a hard time with all this newfangled electronic stuff, but Bruce – the brains of the Folger clan – is a genius at it. A web designer, computer builder and all around expert on all things electronic, Bruce is my go-to guy for just about everything...including the workings of this blog. While at my day job I’m on the computer continuously doing the mundane tasks that most office dwellers deal with, but this ‘creative’ stuff has me buffaloed most of the time. If you ever have need of computer advice, web design or just about anything having to do with these contraptions, give Bruce a call. You can find him through his website, www.theshopatgrandlake.com

On another front, I have been honored to be selected as one of the artists to illustrate an upcoming book, Fly Fishing the Mid-Atlantic by Beau Beasley. You may have seen some of the other books put out by the No Nonsense Fly Fishing Guidebooks outfit, including Beau’s last best seller, Fly Fishing Virginia. I have been asked to illustrate a series of some 40 special flies – each one being a favorite on the individual streams that Beau will feature in the book, as well as a ‘double truck’ oil painting of my favorite stream, the Davidson. There might be a few other illustrations included as well. Along with the honor comes a lot of work, so you might be seeing more fly illustrations than you want as 2010 moves along. A guys gotta do what a guys gotta do...so bear with me...please!

And finally, as I write this on the eve of our Savior’s birth day, may each of you have a Joyful, Blessed & Merry Christmas... and a Great New Year !!!

GOOSE LAKE

The lower image is looking south from the saddle between Iceberg Peak (on left) and Sawtooth Mtn. The upper image is looking north towards Sawtooth Mountain. Photographer unknown.

Snow. It sure was pretty coming down but it sure is a pain today. A literal pain...a back pain. Shoveling snow is meant to be done by the young and stout, and not by folks like me so it only took a few shovel fulls before my back made it known that I was better suited to indoor duty on days such as these. So, our near record snow waits patiently on the sun to transform itself from frozen to liquid as I heed the warning from my backside to let time and temperature take its course.

Mike and I had planned to hit the river last Saturday. He was to drive up from the flatlands to join me for a day on the Davidson. I was expecting cold...you know, somewhere in the 40’s or low 50’s...but the weatherman thought different and scared us off with a forecast of low 30’s and snow. He was right for a change, so once again our outing had to be postponed, leaving me with a weekend of light-duty chores around the house.

I haven’t done much fishing in the snow; in fact only one occasion sticks out in my memory. It was many years ago up in Montana, back in 1964...

...From where I was it looked as if two very large bears, walking upright, were headed my way. As they skirted the shoreline and got closer I could see that the “bears” were wearing backpacks. As we came face to face, I had never seen two such filthy, bedraggled humans. Covered head to foot in soot, they said they were smoke jumpers headed back to Cooke City. They had been dropped in a few miles to our west the week before, and with nothing more than shovels and axes had managed to put out a lightning strike fire without having to call in the reinforcements. From where we were, well above timberline, I couldn’t see a single tree, burnt or otherwise. They asked if we had anything to eat.


Bruce, Uncle George and Dad...1964

We had arrived at Goose Lake the evening before. There was a big tent set up...a canvas wall tent complete with stove...but in spite of its hominess, my cousin and I chose to sleep outside on the bare ground. The stars were amazing, but of course they would be from an elevation of over 10,000 feet. Jane, a few years older and far more studious, pointed out the constellations. All I saw were stars. It was as if we had been transported to the center of the galaxy as the Milky Way seemed to fill the entire sky. If it had been a week or two earlier, before “ice-out,” cousin Jane and I would have been sleeping on snow, fully zipped into down sleeping bags, and in so much discomfort the stars wouldn’t have been noticed. We’d have chosen the tent.

I had scouted the shoreline before dinner and hadn’t seen a fish. Barren, rocky with not one bit of cover for the trout we knew must be in there.

With morning, and the smoke jumpers well fed and on their way down the trail, Mom and Dad, Uncle George, Cousin Jane, and my two brothers and I split up in different directions with the plan to meet up at lunch to report on what we had found. I headed for the short stretch of water between Goose and Little Goose Lakes. Mom and younger brother Bruce headed for Grasshopper Glacier. We had heard of the glacier for years and they decided to climb the saddle between Iceberg Peak and Sawtooth Mountain to see it for themselves. Named for the grasshoppers that were embedded in the ice from a long ago storm, they promised to bring back a sample or two.*

Watching them grow smaller as they climbed the ridge, I headed for the water. The little stream between Goose and Little Goose was no more than thirty feet across. Even with the runoff going full bore it was no more than a foot deep at the deepest, and most of it was just inches deep...just deep enough to hold a trout mostly underwater. I say “mostly” underwater because as I stood on the bank I saw nothing but wall to wall dorsal fins. A swirling, frothy mass of fish doing what fish were meant to do. If I had chosen to rudely interrupt their courtship rituals, I’m certain that I could have walked across on their backs.

These were native Yellowstone Cutthroats, but it was hard to tell that by looking at them. Because they spent the majority of their lives in the deep water of the lake under a sheet of ice, they looked more like silvery salmon. I saw that they were entering the outlet from the big lake and positioned myself on a rock ledge, just above the water line to cut them off. As I watched, every few minutes a nice Cutthroat would cruise by heading for its reproductive rendezvous. Easy pickin's...or so I thought. With just one thing on their minds though, they were very selective. It was about that time that I heard the yelling....and the hysterical laughing.

The laughing was coming from mom and the yelling from Bruce as he tried to stop mom from an insane rock hopping run down the mountainside. As they were climbing to the glacier the high altitude got to her, and as we later learned she had a good case of Acute Mountain Sickness. Seems that one symptom of the sickness is hysterical laughter and unreasonable behavior. Of course as she skipped down the rockslide she was the only one laughing...the rest of us, having no idea what was wrong, were scared to death. Fortunately the symptoms passed rather quickly as she got down to a more hospitable altitude. It's a wonder she wasn't busted to pieces as she skipped down the boulder field. They didn’t attempt a return trip.

Assured that all was well, I returned to my rock perch and through trial and error managed to catch a few of those Cutthroats for dinner that night, tossing them behind me onto a handy spot of lingering snow.


Goose Lake...1964

This scenario, minus another effort to climb to the glacier, was repeated during each of the three days we spent at Goose Lake. I don’t remember too many of the other details. No idea what I caught them on or how many were actually caught...just a great memory of a barren lakeshore, high above timberline, the clear Montana sky, the icy cold clear water and a few willing trout. The bouncing jeep ride down the trail to our base camp probably involved a stop at Star Lake for another futile attempt at the Goldens that lived there, and maybe another stop at one of the lower lakes down towards Cooke City for the Brookies...but the details escape me. So be it. These Goose Lake memories with family are enough.

*(Scientists have estimated the grasshoppers have been extinct for 200 years. Entomologists identified the specimens as migratory locusts “Melanoplus spretus, Thomas.” It is believed they became embedded in the ice when swarms of the migratory grasshoppers, passing over the high mountain range, became chilled or were caught in a severe storm and were deposited on the glacier. Ice and snow continued to build, and buried the grasshoppers into the glacial ice. Later melting of the ice exposed the embedded grasshoppers, permitting discovery of the phenomenon.)

The STIMULATOR

The Stimulator is a remarkable ‘attractor’ fly that coaxes reluctant large trout to strike. And for those of you complaining that there is not a fish illustrated here...well, your imagination needs some work! He’s there. He’s a big hook-jawed brown trout moving upstream to the spawning redds. Look again. You’ll see him.

THE MAD MUD HOPPER

No, the Mad Mud Hopper is not a new terrestrial to try out when the bugs return come spring. And it’s not a new dance move either...though maybe it could be. My "dancing" as practiced on Saturday was at least equal to one of my long ago, wine induced attempts at real dancing.

Chad and I discovered a new pool on the Davidson this past Saturday. Its exact location will remain a secret...as if there are any secret, unknown pools on that heavily fished stream. We had the pool to ourselves, as most of the anglers were trying to tempt those pigs that hang out around the hatchery.

I hooked a beautiful brown of 15-16 inches and as I was about to net him, he darted between my legs and hung the upper fly on the backside of one of my gaiters. I was wading at mid-thigh depth and it was COLD...so cold, that with a wading jacket and long sleeve shirt on, I didn't want to reach down underwater to unhook it. Ever try to raise one leg behind you while standing in the current in very soft sand while holding a fly rod and net in one hand and pathetically reaching and trying to balance with the other? If your knees are as wobbly as mine are...don't try it. I didn't fall in, but needless to say, amidst my contortions and hopping around...the fish escaped with my Sheep Fly dropper. It’s a wonder I didn’t stomp him to death as I tried to free the fly.

Fortunately, Chad, who had wandered downstream a bit, did not witness the Dances With Trout spectacle or I would never hear the end of it. He already laughs at what I call dancing anyway. But I do wish he had been there later to see the fish surface and mock me. I swear that fish had a grin on his “face” as he rose above the surface for one last chuckle.

"I fish...therefore, trout laugh."

HAPPY THANKSGIVING !

Jerry on the "D"
Jerry flew in last Friday afternoon from Arkansas for some pre-Thanksgiving fishing on the Davidson. I had checked that morning with Kevin Howell at DRO about the stream conditions and was assured that although still high from the recent floods, the water was clear and the fish were biting, so after a quick “howdy” and the unloading of his gear we headed out for the “D” to get in a couple of hours of fishing before dark.

Knowing that time was short, and wanting to get Jerry on some fish as quickly as possible, we went straight to the very upper reaches of the hatchery section, way above the bridge to begin our weekend of fishing. Sure enough, just as Kevin had said, the water was beautifully clear ...but the fish were not cooperating. In the short time we had before darkness set in we tried just about everything we could think of and only managed to catch two brookies apiece. Not that we were complaining though...the fish were feisty and beautiful.


Saturday morning, fearing that the Catch & Release waters would be shoulder to shoulder, we headed downstream to the Delayed Harvest area to try out a stretch that I had never fished and once again we found the fishing to be difficult. We worked about a half mile of water with nothing to show for it but good companionship and the pleasure of fishing in some absolutely beautiful scenery. We came upon a pool that literally took my breath away with its beauty. I know you’ve seen those photos from New Zealand...the ones with the deep green crystalline water cradled by boulders strategically placed there by God just for our pleasure....well, the Kiwis have nothing on this place. On second thought maybe they do. We saw no lunker browns or rainbows in the run. Like me, Jerry (having cut his teeth in the Ozarks) finds it hard to see the fish against the dark floor of our local streams. Despite my statements to the contrary, I’m sure he doubted that they were in there.


So after a lunch of peanut butter sandwiches we went back up to the hatchery section where I knew we could see the fish. From many previous visits to the deep and slow waters of that section I knew there would be plenty of plainly visible monstrous trout to get his adrenalin pumping. Was I ever in for a surprise. I didn’t recognize the river. The floods had changed its character entirely. Gone were the long slow runs with their undercut banks holding the biggest and wariest fish, replaced by a scoured out stream bed with little structure. The “structure” was now up in the trees lining the downstream banks, but on the good side...the silt and slime that had buried or partially covered the rocks underfoot had been swept clean. It was a totally different stream, and probably a change for the better. Time will tell.

At least Jerry got to see some fish there. Standing midstream, all of a sudden those fish that weren’t there suddenly appeared everywhere...rising, jumping, slashing and cavorting across the stream as they partook of the Davidson’s famous “pellet hatch”. In their normal fashion they paid him no mind as they darted around and about him, gorging themselves on their daily rations. A long handled net and the fishing would have been easy! But as it was, except for one little fish caught by Jerry on Saturday, we would have gone fishless. No matter though...it was still a fantastic day.

Normally, after Jerry and I get together for a fishing outing there is a story to tell...and there will usually be drastically differing versions of the story. I would normally begin with an elaborate description of all the fish I caught...their size, strength and beauty...and out of nothing but kindness, throw in just a word or two about Jerry’s exploits. This time though, the fishing didn’t leave me with much in the way of embellishment material, so I’ll just say what a wonderful two days it was. Jerry and I have shared many days on the streams and lakes over the years and some of those days were just as unproductive as these were. But all of them are special. To think of him as a best friend and a great fishing partner is a gross understatement. A guy never had a better friend. May we share many more days like we just had.

WEEK 22

OK...so what is it? A trout, I know, but what kind of trout?
Maybe I’ll put some spots on it, but I doubt it. I like it the way it is.
I spotted a photo of this guy on a website last week...did my best rendering of it...and promptly lost the link, or I would give credit to the photographer. I think it might have been some variety of cutthroat.

VETERAN'S DAY

We had killed more than we should have but that’s the way it usually was. In truth I should say that Roger did most of the killing. I did a lot of the shooting. Not to say that I was a bad shot...I was average on most days and a little better on some. Roger never missed, and that fact led to his demise. So right up front, this story doesn’t have a happy ending.

Roger and I were friends. Not the type that hung out together to do just about anything anytime; we were huntin’ buddies, and that’s about all. Other than our desire to spend most mornings before school and every weekend in the field, we were polar opposites. Roger had little if any known interest in girls, fishing or cars and could have cared less about cruisin’ the strip. So we went hunting. From the 1st of September and the opening of dove season, through the end of goose season in January, Roger and I were armed and dangerous. Dove, quail, pheasants, turkey, ducks and geese; deer, squirrels, rabbits, coyotes and all manner of furry or feathered creatures would have done well to lay low. Roger was a hunter.

His parents were older than mine, in fact, if told they were his grandparents no one would have doubted. His dad was retired Air Force and was a very quite man. His mom was even quieter. They had moved to Tulsa upon retirement after a long tour of duty up in the Maine woods where Roger cut his teeth on .22’s and scatter guns. Roger and I were juniors in high school when we met.

Many weekends during duck season we would travel out to the Great Salt Plains in Roger’s Scout. We would drive the perimeter of the refuge looking for ponds. Situated well in the Central Flyway, the place was thick with waterfowl of every variety and every pond or puddle was sure to hold a few of them. Setting out a raft of decoys would have worked of course, but Roger was into stealth...so it was spot, park, crawl and shoot...and shoot, and shoot and shoot again. It usually went something like this: Rising up over the bank we’d spook the ducks. Up they would go and down they would fall. I would empty my gun and figure that I hit a couple of them. Roger would do the same and know that he hit a lot of them. Ten shots and thirteen birds between us was not unheard of. It was that way all the time. Roger never missed, and out of kindness he would always give me credit for hitting a few...whether I did or not.

I always had the feeling that his family had something against grocery stores. I was sure that they lived largely on the game that Roger brought home. My family had a preference for store bought, so it was a given that whatever we bagged would end up in Roger’s freezer. I can recall just one exception. A few years earlier Dad had bought a state of the art Hasty Bake grill. He quickly became a grill master with his steaks, roasts, burgers and chicken recipes. One day dad stated that he’d like to try grilling a duck, so one of the fatter mallards was selected and set aside. Dad had found a recipe in Sports Afield that he wanted to try. On Sunday the grill was fired up and the duck...heavily basted with wine, was prepared. The aroma was amazing...the duck was disgusting. Roger’s freezer stayed full.

We hunted together through our senior year. Every species, every season...building memories almost daily. Time passed, we hunted some more and then it came to an end. We graduated from high school and Roger volunteered for the Army. I got a few letters from him. He had gone Airborne and was as gung-ho as anyone you ever knew. After setting every marksmanship record for every type of hand held weapon the Army had, he was shipped off to ‘Nam as the shooter in a two man sniper unit.

Sometime in 1968, while I was going through training in the Air Force I was called to the commander’s office. Word had come down that while on patrol, Roger had stepped on a land mine and he was gone. I had wondered about how he would reenter the world when the Army had used him up. I had wondered if he could do it. Would he still hunt? Would he be even more deadly? What would he hunt? Would we hunt together again?

I found his name on The Vietnam Wall a few years ago. That tragic black wall with over 50,000 names on it. Not all were like Roger...some were supply sergeants, some were medics, some were whatever. But all were heroes. I thought of Roger a few days ago when reading about something called Honor Air...the project that flies our aging WWII heroes to their memorial in Washington. I thought of him when I read of the passengers at the Asheville airport rising to applaud a guy in uniform just back from Afghanistan. I thought about the waste. I thought about the times and the differences. I wondered who remembered. I remember Roger.

WHAT A DAY!

Chad with beautiful Noontootla Creek Rainbow

When I began sculpting trout a few years ago I was in dire need of reference material. At that time I hadn't collected a lot of photo references so I was taking advantage of every available opportunity. I was bumming old issues of Fly Fisherman and other journals from my buddies and I was watching the best of the fly fishing shows on TV. Any opportunity to get more familiar with my subject matter was taken. One Saturday morning I happened upon something called Fly Fishing Masters on cable. It was a national competition to select the finest fly fisherman in the land. The weekly episodes and the qualification trials were coming to an end and they were fishing that day at a place called Noontootla Creek in the mountains of north Georgia. Kevin Howell (who an hour later had won the competition)of Davidson River Outfitters was in the finals, so the program got my immediate attention.

Sure, the fishing was great...but the scenery, the creek...was just as inviting. I promised myself on that Saturday morning that I would someday fish Noontootla Creek.
Fast forward to 2 years ago. I was working my booth at the FFF Southeastern Conclave at Callaway Gardens and happened to meet Jimmy Harris, the proprietor of Unicoi Outfitters. From researching Noontootla Creek I was aware that Jimmy was one of the select few that had access to this prime water, so a plan began to take shape.

At about the same time I was getting started doing colored pencil commissions of catch and release trout and I thought that Jimmy, with his reputation and his access to such great private water, might be able to help me jump start the program. So I reviewed his website once again, picked out an image and got to work drawing. A week later I emailed the artwork to David Hulsey, who with his wife Becky, runs Jimmy's store in Blue Ridge, GA. The plan was to create an ad that included the artwork and the photo that it was based on, which would then be displayed in the store. Well David loved it...but. But he couldn't use it. Turns out the fisherman in the photo, unbeknownst to me, was one of their guides...and that particular guide had just been fired! Back to the drawing board.

This time I picked another photo. A photo of a guy that I didn't figure would be fired anytime soon. I picked a photo of Jimmy...and a beautiful rainbow trout that he had caught on Noontootla Creek. Well, Jimmy loved the final result and I offered him the original artwork...for a price...a day on Noontootla Creek. Jimmy agreed, but under one condition...that he wouldn't "guide." He wanted to fish, and who could blame him?

So this past Sunday, along with my son-in-law Chad, Jimmy and I headed out of Blue Ridge for the short drive to the creek. It was everything I remembered from that Saturday morning TV show. The water was in perfect condition and with the fall foliage at it's peak, we had the place entirely to ourselves. I, as usual, headed downstream while Jimmy and Chad headed up.

Olive Wooly Buggars, along with a couple of split shot(apparantly these big native rainbows don't care for coneheads), were supposed to be the thing, so that's what we started with. I spent the next two hours drifting them down deep through the runs with no luck at all. I varied the number of shot...tried droppers of all sorts...fished them upstream and down...even put on a strike indicator...all to no avail. Major frustration. Here I was on one of the premier trout streams in the southeast, and I hadn't had a bite! I even (horrors!)tried the old San Juan Worm. A little later, in desperation, as I was about to tie on an egg pattern that a guide on Big Cedar had forced upon me, I came to my senses. "STOP Alan! You don't have to do this! Dance with the one who brung you!"

Yep, I tied on a black and yellow marabou...with not one bit of weight. I was either going to fish the way I wanted to and hopefully land a fish or two...or I was going home skunked again. It didn't take long. Within just a few casts I had caught one of the beautiful, but small, par marked rainbows that grew up there. And not long after that, when fishing a very narrow and fast run I hooked into a lunker.

When we were gearing up back at the truck, Jimmy had made the comment that my old 1950's vintage Medalist made some sweet music when a fish took off. Well, had he been there at the time of this rainbows first, second and third runs...he would have heard a symphony. Jimmy had warned me about the strength of these fish, and it was no exaggeration. My old Fenwick had never had such a workout. Two times, as I stumbled my way downstream, I was able to get the fish out of the faster current and near to shore, and two times she caught her breath and took off again. Finally, after what must have been fifteen minutes, I got her about half way into the net and to the shore. I was praising the Lord...and shaking like a leaf. That fish, without a doubt, was the finest rainbow I have ever caught. I managed to get the hook out and get her fully revived, but I just didn't have the heart to keep her longer while I would have fumbled to get out my camera and record the moment. I layed my rod alongside for an estimation of her length (24 inches) and eased her back into the current.

Meanwhile, Chad and Jimmy were having some fun of their own. Chad couldn't get Jimmy to fish though. That man is such a teacher...such a guide...that even though he was carrying a rod, he rarely used it. Rather, he was teaching the finer points of nymphing to Chad (a situation that I'm not at all pleased about, as Chad will now be out fishing me with even greater regularity!) and netting his fish, including the fine rainbow that I've pictured above. From what I heard, Chad's battle was just as epic as mine.

What a day it was!
Thank you Jimmy!

WEEK 21

This Brown is one half of a commission piece that is very nearly complete. My buddy Jerry and his son-in-law took the son-in-law's Dad on a special trip to White River over the summer and as a remembrance of their trip they commissioned me to do a sketch of 'Dad" along with a typical Ozark Brown Trout. Obviously Dad isn't in this sneak peak yet. I'm working to finish it up and will post the entire image when I get it done.