45,000

Here’s a sneak peak of a new commission piece that I’m working on. A few of you over the past year have indicated an interest in seeing the process that I use and this is a pretty good example.

I start each piece with a very faint pencil drawing to get the basic details and layout in place. From there I go to the pens, employing a pointillism technique to show depth and detail. I will typically complete the entire piece in pen and ink before touching the colored pencils. Some may consider it redundant to add this much detail at this point, but if I don’t have it right at this stage, then it’s time to start all over again.

Once the ink is dry I can gently erase the pencil marks from the design and begin applying the color. In this example I haven’t decided how to handle the hands...Not sure if I’ll use the pens or if I’ll just go with the colored pencils with no pen and ink underlayment. I’ll probably color the fish before deciding...

45,000? That’s about how many dots I figure it took to get the piece to this point. No, I haven’t counted each one of them, but I have a rough idea of the average number I apply per minute. That number times the number of minutes spent equals 45,000!

We Are Not Alone

Zach Clayton, who happens to be just about the savviest marketing guru on the planet, has reported on his blog some very interesting news about social networking. The info comes from the emarketer Report and it confirms that I am not unique regarding my recent entry into the world of social networking.

I jumped into the Facebook deal about a month ago as an experiment. I had been getting those mysterious emails inviting me to be a “Friend” and in the hustle bustle of going through my emails each morning I just about wore out the delete button in getting rid of them. Then one day I thought, what the heck, I’ll give it a try.

As an outsider I had always viewed Facebook as the place where so-called celebrities had their nude photos anonymously posted to boost their careers. But much to my surprise, just about everyone I know in the fly fishing world was already there (fully clothed, thankfully)....and their numbers are growing daily.

According to recent research, the geezer community (of which I am a proud member) has embraced social networking in dramatic numbers. In 2009 Boomers (aged 44-62) and Matures (aged 63-75) “saw dramatic 15% and 22% increases in social network activity from 2008 to 2009—that jump is particularly surprising when compared to the activity increase from 2007-2008, when Boomers and Matures increased their presence by a mere 1% and 4%, respectively.”

Lisa Phillips, eMarketer senior analyist and author of the “Boomers and Social Media” report, supports this idea, saying “Boomers expect that technology will help them live longer and better lives and keep them connected to family, friends, co-workers and, eventually, healthcare providers. To fulfill these expectations, boomers are turning to social media.”

Seventy-three percent of Boomers and 90% of Matures claimed to maintain profiles on Facebook in 2009.
Interesting.

Crawfish Etouffee

Add a roux (dark please) onions, garlic, celery and green pepper and the feast is on. Of course this gentleman prefers his raw, but in honor of the Saint's victory tonight I thought I'd fancy it up a bit.

This is the brown trout that I was imagining in my post of last week. Like the cutthroat in that posting, I was going to add a fly to this one, but the mud bug seemed a better choice.

Day Dreamin'

I posted the pen and ink version of this a few weeks ago, and over the weekend I couldn't resist dressing it up with a little color. So now, rather than a non-descript trout of unknown variety, she is now officially a Cutthroat...in fact, it’s from Slough Creek, Second Meadow. Hit the Muddler really hard.

Ah yes, fantasy is a wonderful thing. Especially this winter. And tomorrow we are expecting another foot of snow! Wonder what I’ll "catch" this weekend. Hmmm, there’s a nice Brown hanging out over at.........

A Lazy Rainy Saturday

After a great monthly meeting at the Asheville VA Hospital on Saturday morning with our Project Healing Waters crew, I turned down an invite to fish the Davidson from Ryan to get some much needed "catching up" done back at my studio.

The meeting was a lot of fun as Ryan had arranged to get his hands on three of those Echo practice casting rods for our vets to try out. After a bit of instruction we held a casting competition for the vets and the top five winners got some pretty neat prizes...some prints, flies, books, etc...all designed to whet their appetites for an upcoming on stream adventure.

Those Echo practice rods are fantastic! (I'm trying to figure out how to put a reel seat on them for some bluegill action this summer.) They really do mimic casting with a regular full sized rod and they were great for teaching the vets some of the finer points of casting.

Back in the studio I tackled some of those un-fun bookkeeping items that we all hate, but also managed to have a little fun finishing the rainbow you see above. Hope you like it.

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."