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.

South Holston Fly Fishing Fest

Shirley and I are looking forward to a brand new fly-fishing festival and art show that’s going to be held at Rivers Way, over on the South Holston River next weekend. We’ll be heading out around mid day on Friday in order to get set up for the one day show that will be on Saturday...and of course to get in a few casts before dark. Since moving to North Carolina I’ve always heard that the South Holston is pretty much the equivalent of White River, so I can’t wait to get there. Throw in an art show and the chance to meet some new folks and I don’t know how it could be beat.

P.S. I’ve spent the past week trying to complete a new Brown Trout illustration to have on display there, and if I can get it done in time, I’ll try to get it up on the blog before leaving.

The winner(s) of the trout print!

Yes there were two winners. Both were too good to reject. Stephanie from over Lake Norman way with her suggestion, "I will not get caught, I will not get caught, I do not want to eat that!"
and my blog buddy, Mike from the "Mikes Gone Fishin' blog (See link to the right in My Favorites) with his entry. "Can a brotha' get a mayfly?"

I'll be sending each of them a print with THEIR own quote on it.
Thanks to all that participated!

JULY 4th

My son-in-law Chad has just been fly fishing a few years, and like all of us at that point in our development, he has been occasionally frustrated. (Like we’re never frustrated now???) Might have even quietly wondered if it was really meant for him. Well, over the weekend he had one of those “Eureka Experiences” on a tiny little creek in north Georgia. That’s just one of the rainbows that he caught shown above.

I however, didn’t do so well. On Friday afternoon I partnered up with one of my co-workers for an easy trip to the Davidson. We figured it would be crowded and were we ever right! We each managed to catch a couple, but nothing worthy of bragging about. I had many follows by a few of the big guys...those long, slow follows that give your heart a test. You know the type. They rush the fly and then hang out an inch behind it for what seems an eternity before turning away. I swear I saw two of them flip down their bifocals for a final inspection before heading back to cover.

WEEK 11

Help me CAPTION THIS TROUT !!!!
I saw a photo of this guy somewhere in a magazine and thought he showed a little personality...so in this quick rendering I tried to capture it. He definitely has an attitude...but what is it? What is he thinking?

Let me know how you would caption it and if it’s better than, or the same as the one I have in mind... I’ll send you a free print of it!

(I won’t post your suggestion here unless you’re the winner)

FATHER'S DAY

John Bass, “The Man” for Project Healing Waters in the Mid-South Region came to town with a couple of vets...Billy Davis from the Vietnam era and Ceamus McDermott, a guy leaving soon for his umpteenth tour in Iraq/Afghanistan.

On Saturday Ryan Harman from the NC Fly-Fishing Team guided Ceamus on the Davidson, while Jesse Connor, of bamboo rod building fame (Trout Dancer) escorted Billy. They spent the day on some of Davidson River Outfitters prime waters, and each of them got to meet a good number of Kevin Howell’s big rainbows and browns. John and I had the pleasure of observing. Healing Waters, indeed. To watch these guys fishing and to see the smiles on their faces as they erased some of the past and prepared for the future was fantastic. To see the joy that our sport brings them, as you consider what they’ve been through, it makes a fellow proud to be in their company.

On Sunday John Bass and I were given access to some excellent water on the West Fork of the French Broad. Deep in the woods, in “Deliverance” country, we listened hard but never heard any banjo playing...just the music of the stream. I must tell you a little about John. Many years ago, in a diving accident John Bass broke his neck and is paralyzed from the waist down. And if that isn’t bad enough, he has very limited use of his arms and hands. But John Bass is a trout fisherman, and nothing can keep him from the stream. John is the perfect person to be heading up the Project Healing Waters campaign in our region because if he can fly-fish, anyone can.

John caught at least a dozen par marked rainbows on a fly that’s very special to him...the Sheep Fly. It’s a long story that’s best told by John himself, but let me say...that was one happy trout fisherman. And there couldn’t have been a better setting. A clear mountain stream with easy access for a guy in a wheelchair...willing trout and a guy that knew how to catch ‘em. Worries? What worries? John and his Sheep Fly ruled the day. Drifting the fly deep through a nice pool he caught fish after fish including a couple of very nice ones. His skill with a fly rod must be seen to be believed. After John left for home I had the same pool to myself and by following his technique I managed to get lucky with a weighted black and yellow marabou. I think that I matched John’s total and also caught the twin of his largest one. What a peaceful setting...what a day.

Did I mention the outhouse? Conveniently positioned next to the picnic shelter, it had an ancient look to it...weathered wood like any “privy” found on any country farm. But the inside was totally modern with a porcelain commode, running water and a mirror!

Thanks again to Kevin Howell for putting our vets on some VERY GOOD water! Without guys like Kevin our regional program would be nowhere, and too many of our wounded vets would miss out on the healing therapy that fly-fishing provides. And thanks also...for the outhouse!

PS...
Update on the Tenkara.
For a few minutes on Saturday John and I snuck away to the hatchery section of the Davidson. He wanted to see the Tenkara in action just as much as I wanted to try it out on some different water. Needless to say the river was crowded, but I managed to sneak into a stretch of rapids to give it a try. (Can’t you just hear the fathers: “But honey, it’s Father’s Day. I’ll only be gone a little while...please?)

With the crowd above and below me, I was limited to only fifty or so feet of water. With John peering through the trees I quickly tied a “knot” that proved to be just a “loop” around the fly – not a knot. Standing mid stream I tossed a dry upstream and promptly lost the fly on the fist strike. A few minutes later I hooked up with a nice rainbow and was able to get him in quite easily. I’m still having trouble with the rods length though. At 12 feet it is 6 feet longer than my standard rod so I was continually hitting the overhead branches on my back cast. Yes, I’m a slow learner with a very poor memory. And with over 24 feet of line – that can’t be reeled in – it was difficult to cast to the closer pockets. I tried “choking up” on the rod, but that was pretty awkward. Maybe I could have collapsed a few of the lower rod sections. Still, it was fun and even with its limitations, it is practical for small stream fishing.

Ryan also had a chance to try the rod over the weekend and sees its potential for small streams. He suggested and I concur, that the furled leader tends to twist quite a lot and that a straight heavy leader might work a lot better. I’ll have to give that a try.

WEEK 10

RAKU TROUT
In keeping with my recent experiments with the Tenkara fly-fishing method, I thought it appropriate to put this up on the blog. Like Tenkara, it comes from ancient Japan.. This piece you see was modeled with a special kind of clay that is able to withstand the extreme temperature shock that is required by the process. The glaze that I used was pretty much picked at random and as you might be able to see from the image, it contained a bit of cooper. Unlike other pottery glazes, this one is totally at the mercy of the firing and cooling process...meaning that the placement of colors, lines and whatever...just happens. The artist has little if any control in the appearance of the finished product.

After firing to the point that it’s almost transparent, it is removed from the kiln and put in a metal trash can full of shredded newspaper. The lid is tightly closed and it is allowed to cool down for a few minutes. Then while it is still VERY hot it is dunked in a tub of water. Like I said, the thermal shock is extreme. At this point you either have a neat piece of intact pottery or a collection of broken shards. I was lucky this time.

I really doubt that I’ll do any more of these...for that very reason. You take the unpredictability of the process and combine that with the cost of equipment and it just doesn’t seem worth it. (I was able to use a friend’s equipment to create this one.) The fish itself is about 24 inches long and as you see, I mounted it in a shadow box.

Little Moose Lake

Little Moose Lake was more a pond than a lake but I didn’t care. I was invited to go there and by golly, if it had fish in it I was all for it. The invitation had come from a wealthy businessman that had a cabin just outside of Cooke City, who just happened to be a very good friend of Uncle George. He also had a Land Rover and a small boat. This was long before all the Land Rovers were owned by yuppies...back in a time when they were actually driven in the dirt and gravel. This one looked like it had left the Serengeti just last week. For years our only mode of motorized transport up into the Beartooth had been WW2 surplus jeeps, so to ride in comparative luxury was gonna be a new experience. He said that the lake was full of good sized rainbows and that it was rarely fished. Our nemesis, Erwin A. Bauer* hadn’t been there, so it was a lock that we would have it to ourselves.

Little Moose Lake was a short but bumpy ride just off the Beartooth Highway towards Red Lodge in Park County, Wyoming. At about 8,000 feet elevation it looked like many other of the lower level lakes...a very swampy put-in area at the mouth and surrounded by heavy forests...some very fishy looking shallow water and of course some deep drop-offs where the cliffs met the shore. As we slogged the boat across the muck into clear water it was obvious that we were at the wrong end of the lake. The air was dead calm and there wasn’t a single rise form to be seen. The other end of the lake was another matter. The water was almost choppy from the feeding trout.

I was placed in the middle of the boat with the oars, between Uncle George in the front and our host at the rear, and was told to head us towards the fish. Having been with Uncle George on many an adventure, it was no surprise that I, a healthy teenager, was invited and given the rowing duties. Fifteen minutes later we were surrounded by feeding trout. A few casts were made and the water went still. Glassy water, with only the reflection of the mountains to hold our attention. Figuring that the hatch had ended we changed techniques and continued to fish until one of my elders happened to notice that the other end of the lake was now alive with activity. “Head us back that-a-way Alan!”

Unlike our first foray, we approached as quietly as we could. Didn’t matter. After a few casts the activity came to a halt. I should say at this point that we knew what we were doing...at least my boat-mates did. They had fished these high mountain lakes for years and they were accomplished fly-fishermen so it wasn’t a matter of incompetence. But this trip was different...these trout were determined to humiliate them and they were being very successful.

So I spent the next three hours wishing we had a small outboard, rowing us around the lake chasing rising trout.
Finally it became apparent that we were going to have to change our ways, and I was directed to row us towards one of the more promising looking shallows. I was completely beat. Four or five trips from one end of the lake to the other had worn me out. I positioned our little john boat within casting distance of the shore and decided that a short nap was in order. Even at that early age I knew that I would never catch a fish unless my fly was in the water, so I threw that big Royal Wulff as far as I could out towards the middle of the lake, away from the shoreline that Captain Bligh and his partner were working.

With my arms crossed over my knees and my head resting on them, I dozed off for a while as they worked the shoreline. By then a small breeze had come up so I was confident that the boat would drift slowly down the shoreline, negating any immediate need for my services.

I have no idea how long I was out...take a warm sun, a soft breeze, exhaustion and quite passengers, and it could have been five minutes... or it could have been thirty. Whatever it was, it came to an abrupt and noisy end with Uncle George yelling “SET THE HOOK! Alan! SET THE HOOK!”
Dropping your rod into the bottom of the boat is not the recommended way of setting the hook but it worked.
Fish on! And it was good one...easily the largest trout I had ever hooked. He jumped, he sang the reel and five minutes later he was mine. With already sore arms it was a wonder I got him to the boat. I’ll confess that at one point I considered handing Uncle George the rod to finish the job. What a fish! Probably the finest looking rainbow I’d ever seen, and certainly the prettiest one I’d ever caught. They guessed that he would easily go eight pounds.

The resentment towards my passengers now gone, I soaked in the praise as we admired my catch. Soon after, I doled out my two remaining Wulffs and they began to catch some as well. As I remember it, we made it back to the cabins in Cooke City the proud possessors of a half dozen very nice trout, which we promptly laid out on the grass for all to see.

As my family gathered around to take some Polaroid’s, Mr. Shaw, the proprietor of the cabins, came on the scene to let us know that Bauer was in town and inquiring as to how we did that day. “Better get those fish cleaned and in the freezer Alan...before he gets here!”
There’s a price to pay for everything.

* Anyone of my vintage will recognize the name as one of the more prolific trout fishing writers back in the 50’ and 60’s. He was notoriously despised by the local anglers as the guy responsible for the growing popularity of “their” home waters, but he was a hero to the lodge owners, outfitters and others that catered to the tourist trade.

Tenkara...test #1

Well, the Tenkara rod arrived over the weekend and I had a few minutes Sunday evening to try it out on the neighborhood pond. I like it...I think. Obviously, it was not intended for pond fishing, but this short and easy outing was a good introduction to the tenkara system.

Pros: If one had never experienced fly-fishing one would be hooked on Tenkara. Casting it is easy, and as advertised, it is delicate and deadly accurate. I caught numerous bluegills, from 3 inches up to 8, and it was a blast playing them with that long (12 foot), wispy rod. The rod length allowed me to reach over the cattails along the bank and it was very advantageous in reaching around some overhanging limbs, allowing me to get the fly to some spots I wouldn’t have been able to reach with my standard gear. When the rod is collapsed it’s only 23 inches long, so portability and ease of set up is a definite plus. The rod is of very high quality and is well put together. While I can’t imagine chunking my other gear in favor of the tenkara, I can definitely see its potential in certain circumstances. Its “fun value” is way up there.

Cons: With no reel...it is “top heavy.” Don’t get me wrong, the rod is light, but without anything to counterbalance the length, it could get tiring to cast. The length also comes into play when bringing the fish to hand. The only way to bring the fish in is to lift the rod, and if there are limbs around or behind you, that can be a problem. We aren’t used to dealing with that 12 feet of rod length, and with the 12 foot furled monofilament leader they supply and an additional tippet of two feet, problems with surrounding foliage can occur. I can’t imagine fishing one of our heavily canopied streams and having to deal with that length, but I’ll be giving it a go this coming weekend. Since I could only cast a little over 26 feet, I wasn’t able to get the fly in front of a bass that was lurking just out of range. Of course, if I were wading or in a float-tube that wouldn’t have been a problem.
And last but not least...what am I supposed to do with my left hand???

So the verdict is still out. Even with it’s limitations it was a lot of fun to fish with. The real test will come this weekend when we host a few wounded warriors on one of our mountain cricks. Fortunately (or unfortunately, for our testing purposes) our guests are not amputees, but I’m still looking forward to getting their impressions of the system.

I AM EXCITED !!!

Last week I wrote about Cane Pole Fishin’...a somewhat tongue in cheek essay about what at least for me might be a new way of going after trout. I made mention of Tenkara, the ancient Japanese method of fly-fishing and I can’t believe the response I have gotten. Also, on the Southeastern Fly Fishing forum, wondering about it’s suitability for our wounded vets, I put out the word that I would be interested in hearing back from anyone that had experience with Tenkara. One of your fellow blog readers and a member of the forum, knowing of my connection to Project Healing Waters got in contact with Tenkara USA and corresponded with their President, who in turn got in touch with me. Well, I just got off the phone with him and he is sending us two rods to try out!

Update today, June 9th: Just got word that two of our Wounded Warriors will be joining us for two days of fishing the waters around Brevard next weekend. We're planning on hitting the Davidson and some smaller streams in the area. It'll be a great opportunity to try out the Tenkara.
Reports to follow!