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.

The Blue Ridge Fly Fishing Event

Research ???
You may have noticed that there are very few grab and grin photos on the blog. Simple explanation. I catch very few fish worthy of the effort involved in capturing them on film for posterity. As I think I’ve said before, I create a lot more big trout than I catch, and a recent day in Spruce Pine proved it. That doesn’t keep me from trying though. As I tell Shirley (as often as I think I can get away with it), “I need to get out and do some research.” After all, if I’m going to continue creating these images, from time to time I need to refresh my memory of what they are supposed to look like...even if I’m studying someone else’s fish.

Project Healing Waters put together a little fishing competition a couple of weekends ago and my buddy and PHW leader, Ryan Harman, asked me if I would be the veteran half of his team. Now, I’ve fished with Ryan a few times and have managed to catch a trout or two in his presence, but to label me as a “competitive fly fisherman” would be a major insult to those who really are. I suspect that the invite was more a kindness play than anything else.

As some of you know, I frequent the Southeastern Fly Fishing Forum occasionally as “52trout”, especially if I think I can stir things up a bit by ruffling the feathers of the fly fishing elitists. Anyway, recently there was a debate on the merits of competitive fly fishing that elicited a lot of comments putting it down. A lot of folks got indignant, if not downright insulting, and others came out with the old deal about how they never count fish and that just being there on the stream was all they needed to soothe their souls. Good for them. While I wouldn’t argue with that point of view, I can testify that a competition can be great fun if not taken too seriously, and that in the case of getting our wounded warriors on the stream it’s hard, if not impossible, to beat.

You see, we don’t hold these tourneys on your average “open to the public” trout streams. Why’s that? Well, in the case of Project Healing Waters, we want the vets to catch fish...and so what if they are just released pellet crunchers, fattened to the point of bursting? The whole point of PHW is therapy. Physical and mental therapy. That and the idea that we are introducing disabled vets to a sport that they can enjoy for the rest of their lives. And by catching a trout or two, we greatly increase the odds that they will enjoy it. Take my word for it...the therapy works.

But back to the competition. Shirley, Ryan and I arrived on Saturday afternoon to the prettiest little trout stream you have ever seen. If you’ve ever sat and dreamed of owning a little land with a trout stream flowing through it...this was your dream. In the high country of North Carolina, just “behind” Mt. Mitchell, this beautiful stretch of private water was made available to us for the weekend by the kindness of River’s Edge Outfitters in Spruce Pine, NC. Many of the beats afforded easy access for some of our “not so mobile vets” and each beat was packed with fish.

Saturday night was a special treat. Tim Cummings,our organizer and host, and his team hosted a great meal and auction for all of the vets and their families, along with the professional guides and other volunteers. We had a great presentation by Curtis Fleming of Fly Rod Chronicles with a fabulous slide presentation that was miraculously put together from photos taken during the day Saturday, and I had the honor of presenting a special PHW print to each of the thirty-some vets in attendance. Talk about inspirational. The guys and gals were really appreciative, but nothing compared to the appreciation we had for them and their service to the country.

Sunday morning Ryan and I hit the water with high hopes of successfully tempting some of the brutes that were put there for our pleasure. Didn’t take Ryan long to score...and score again. The fish were deep and taking nymphs so lightly you’d have thought there were sharp hooks attached...or something. Nymph fishing aint my thing. Try as he might, Ryan has a hard time teaching this old dog new tricks, so stubborn as I am, I continued flogging the water with my standard stuff...and going not just fishless, but strikeless. I recall my first exposure to nymphing. About forty-five years ago an old gentleman at Roaring River State Park back in Missouri explained it to me as if it was some sort of mystical endeavor. One that required a special “sense” in order to detect the take. Of course in those days there were no strike indicators so one had to just feel the strike down deep in their soul. I tried it and tried it and no matter how mystical I tried to get, all I sensed was...well, I sensed nothing at all...especially the tug of a trout.

Our afternoon beat was a tough one. In the morning session our opponents went fishless there, and except for one trout caught by Ryan, we would have too. So Ryan ended the day with four, including a very nice twenty incher which was in a three way tie for the largest of the day. And I...well I was skunked...proving yet again why this blog will never be a how-to manual. As much as I love to fly fish, it is not my religion. I fly fish because I was raised to and because I enjoy it immensely. And truth be told, I’m not as good at it as you probably are...nor will I ever be. I don’t study it. I am pretty good at identifying the variety of fish I catch, but I would be hard pressed to identify the most basic bug found on the stream. Ninety-nine percent of the time I couldn't care less about matching a hatch. Don’t get me wrong...if spinners are falling like rain and the trout are piggin’ out on them, I’ll of course join in the fun, but on a typical day I won’t be wracking my brain trying to match a size 22 midge pattern to that gnat that keeps buzzing around my nose. And the last time I actually looked on the underside of a rock I was searching for my line nippers after a Zinger failed me.

Needless to say, with my lack of skill, we didn’t win the thing. No trophies, no plaques, no photos or prizes. I think Ryan still likes me, but I think he’ll look elsewhere for his next competition partner. Did I say there were no prizes? Shame on me. Every single vet there had a great time. Most of them caught a few fish and the smiles on their faces were prize enough.

WEEK 20

The Basswood Lake Incident
From right to left, Jerry The Mad Cheese Scientist, Richard The Ivory Snatcher, Joe The Classical Guitarist, and The Speaker of Truth.

Once upon a time in the early spring of 1989, in a place far removed from civilization, four good buddies spent an eventful week fishing the Boundary Waters of Northern Minnesota. A long awaited and well planned adventure, there was Jerry, The Mad Cheese Scientist...Richard, The Ivory Snatcher,,,Joe, The Classical Guitarist...and moi, The Speaker of Truth.

Leaving out of Ely, Minnesota we lugged our canoes and gear through countless lengthy and grueling portages. ( I say "countless" both to elicit sympathy and because I can't remember how many there actually were...more on my memory later.) Basswood Lake was the destination and Smallmouth Bass were to be the prey. The weather was ideal and our preparations were spot on. With visions of surface busting bass, two of us to a canoe, we paddled towards the Canadian border.

We had been given good advice from our outfitter...the standard stuff like keep a clean camp, hang your food from a tree, and by the way, stay away from Basswood Falls. What's that, we said? Seems we were a week behind a similar expedition that had ventured too close to the falls. These particular falls are BIG and getting too close to them in a canoe invites a harrowing white water adventure through what must be Class XXIV rapids. Get too close and its got you...you can't get away. A week earlier a canoe got too close and the authorities had given up looking for one of its occupants just the day before our arrival. OK, we'll stay away from the falls.

Our campsite was on a little spit of land dividing two parts of the lake, giving us great vistas and easy access in every direction. After a hearty freeze dried dinner, a well earned good nights sleep and your standard campfire breakfast we made plans for our first foray into the wilds of Smallmouth Heaven. So that each of us could benefit from the sterling conversation and companionship of the others, we decided that we would rotate each canoes occupants on a daily basis. I don't recall who I drew the first day, but it doesn't matter...it's another day's assignment that matters.

Well, we were too early for the Smallmouths. Another week and we would have had them. As it was though, we were right on time for the Northerns. Caught tons of them on all manner of top-water baits...but just a few Smallmouth. Every day we sought out a new cove, a new tactic and of course a new boat companion. We ventured far and wide, and yes, we even headed to the falls one sunny morning. As we cautiously approached them we could see, feel and hear the danger ahead of us. An awesome cataract tumbled down a chute of boulders and drop-offs, each ledge ending in a pool of very fishy water. It was too much to resist. We secured the canoes and with rods in hand we scurried from one pool to the other in search of fish. We caught a good many...and some nice ones too. Don't know what my companions were throwing but I was sticking to top-water baits. Remembering the matter of the drowned canoeist, the last thing I wanted to do was get hung up on the bottom...or anything that might be lurking there.

Days of paddling, casting and landing Northerns can tire a fellow out so on our next to last day, a day that I was to team up with The Mad Cheese Scientist, I suggested right after breakfast that he and I hang around camp and take it easy that morning. Jerry was all-in, so that was the plan. A couple of gentlemen fishermen, hanging around camp, taking life easy.

Like every fisherman I have ever known, we had spent the previous days fishing everywhere but at our back-door, so long about mid-morning I grabbed my spinning rod and headed for a small cove...just a short walk from camp...just to see what was there. I had one lure with me...a lure soon to be famous among the four of us as the subject of future fish stories and ridicule. Back at our home base of Carthage, Missouri there lived two brothers. Two very inventive brothers. They had bought the rights to a unique lure propeller, and using it, had come up with a lure named "The Woodchopper." Hand made of sugar pine, this top-water bait with the crazy props on both ends was deadly. This was long before they marketed it nationally, so there weren't many of them around, especially in the north woods of Minnesota. In fact, the one I had was a prototype.

The cove was amazing. Shallow and clear with a good number of downed pines stacked like Pick-Up-Sticks just under the surface. As I studied the water, a few of the logs were moving. Good grief...those are fish! Always interested in sharing my good fortune with others, I decided I must run back and tell Jerry...right after I made a cast ot two. The Woodchopper had no sooner hit the water than a "log" exploded to the surface and headed for Canada...and he took the Woodchopper with him. After regaining my composure and cursing my luck, I yelled at Jerry to come join me. But of course, after the recent commotion, by the time Jerry arrived the cove was vacant of fish.

"That fish was four feet long! You should have seen him! He was huge!"
"Yeah, sure he was Alan. Are you sure he wasn't ten feet long?"
"Jerry, I swear...he was four feet long if he was a foot."
"The foot part I can believe."
"Really, he was! And he took my Woodchopper!"
"Well you can get another one when we get home."

The next day I teamed up with Joe, who didn't believe me either, and Jerry headed out with Richard, who just laughed when hearing the story. Joe and I had an average, mostly uneventful day and headed back to camp. About an hour later Jerry and Richard returned. As I was helping to pull their canoe up the bank, Jerry started in on me.

"So he was four feet long, was he?"
"Every bit of it," I said.
"We know better Alan. We caught your fish and here he is!"

As Jerry grabbed his stringer and held up a snaky looking Northern of about eighteen inches, Richard chimed in with, "And here's your Woodchopper to prove it! He still had it in his mouth."

Needles to say, the campfire conversation that night focused on my uncanny ability to exaggerate, as have most of our get-togethers since. Had they attempted to duplicate the campfire scene from "Blazing Saddles" there wouldn't have been more laughter and finger pointing.

It's been twenty years since the Basswood Lake Incident and how they got that Woodchopper I'll never know, because none of them will fess up. But this I do know...that fish was huge...every bit of four feet long! I know he was. I saw him. Really.

Publishing this little bit of history is my birthday present to myself. My best friend, Jerry (the former Mad Cheese Scientist) will squirm again as he reads the true story of our northern adventure; he will no doubt stick to his side of the story and nervously laugh as he, yet again, attempts disparage my honesty.
But most of all, deep down inside where the truth resides, he’ll be green with envy that he has never felt the pull of such a magnificent fish!

Favorite Time of the year

As we had left the window open last night it was really hard to climb out of that warm bed this morning! I had an early appointment to make at the Asheville VA’s Orthopedic Clinic and the early morning nip in the air was a sure sign of things to come...warm jackets, welcome campfires, falling leaves and of course...some very exciting fall fly fishing. After the appointment and my arrival at the office I logged on to catch up on some emails and seeing this old screen saver, thought I'd share it with you.

If you look close you’ll see that it was painted back in ’03. Done in acrylics, I had copied the image as a “learning experience” from a very well known artist that I have admired for years and I was pleased by the way it turned out. It says pretty much everything about this time of year so I thought I’d share it with you.

What better time of year to get out and enjoy nature. Sure, if we can manage to include a little fly fishing, so much the better. But even if we can’t, what a treat it is to take in the beauty of God’s Creation on a crisp fall day.

Attention SPONSORS

Now that the long awaited FTC endorsement guidelines have come out I want it to be known that I am now available for endorsement deals, and that, in spite of what my friends, family and some readers will say, I am, as required in the guidelines...a credible blogger.

As such, I have no intention of signing up with multiple gear and equipment companies just to get the freebies rolling in. Rather, I will entertain endorsement deals with only the first three reputable firms that submit their proposals in each of the following product categories:
Fly rods & reels
Vests & chest packs
Waders & boots
Flies, trout
Flies, bass
Sunglasses
Landing nets
Destination transportation & lodging

RFP’s in the general category of “Art Supplies” will be going out on November 1, 2009.

I can assure all interested parties that I will abide with all of the FTC’s 81 page Federal Register guidelines, including, but not limited to, all full disclosure requirements.

WEEK 19

Snake River Cutthroat
If you look back to WEEK 9 you can see the pen & ink version of this Cutthroat. Over the weekend, rather than sit and watch my Sooners get whipped by Miami (again!) I decided to make better use of my time. The game Saturday night provided very few occasions for me to jump from the chair and shout for joy...in fact, very few reasons to even glance at the screen...so I was finally able to put the finishing touches on this. Hope you like it!

Is it just me...

Is it just me, or has anyone else noticed over the past couple of years, the number of news stories that describe unusual accounts of fish “fighting back”???

I’m not talking about fish putting up a good fight. I’m talking about fish actually attacking anglers. Bears, sharks, big cats, spiders and snakes...along with rogue elephants, hippos, crocs and gators, have been after us for years, and now it seems that fish are joining this hooligan gang of marauding wildlife.
Giant cod attacks woman in Australia...
Tiger Oscar takes a bite out of owner’s finger...
Lion fish named Lily jabs poisonous spines into hand...
Huge Sailfish attacks angler...
600 pound Marlin knocks angler to the floor...
Asian carp attacks on the rise...
A Cambodian teenager recovering in hospital after a puffer fish attacked him in the groin...
Girl bather is bitten fatally by barracuda...
...and of course the normal string of shark attacks.

Honestly, I don’t know what more we could do. We’ve adopted catch and release. We use barbless hooks and we work really hard to revive everything we catch. Dynamite is in disrepute and gigging - other than in a few southern neighborhoods - is on the decline. So why are they so mad at us? Must we quit fishing altogether? Have they signed up with PETA? Granted, thousands of years of abuse is bound to get a species riled up, but this doesn’t seem to be random. It looks to be organized...and that’s a scary thought.

As I am known to frequent ponds and lakes in a float-tube hunting for bass and bream, I am always on the look-out for deranged largemouths. The bream don’t scare me...just little pecks...but the LMB definitely antes up the risk factor. And if the pike and musky populations sign on to this deal I may have to begin wearing suits of chain mail and shopping for a bigger boat.

Well, last week I posted the link about the attacking eel and yesterday on the Moldy Chum website I see this: A story about a kayak angler being attacked by a rattlesnake. A crazy Texan and a poisonous snake. Great combination...read the story and you’ll see what I mean.
If we start using rattlesnakes as bait, we’re really going to piss ‘em off.

http://www.moldychum.com/home-old/2009/9/29/neville-flynn-would-be-proud.html

LET'S RUMBLE !

I can't help it. When I hear the word "Rumble" it takes me back to my high school days in Tulsa. Back in the late 50's and early 60's, as documented by a fellow high schooler, S.E. Hinton through her book 'The Outsiders", and Francis Ford Coppola in his film of the same name...a rumble meant trouble. I confess to more familiarity than I should have with the theme of the book. No, Pony Boy wasn't a friend of mine. I was on the other side of the tracks from him and the guy that Patrick Swayze's character was based on. This rumble was different. No greasers, no socs'...just some of the best fly-fishers in the nation.

The North Carolina Fly Fishing Team and the Eastern Band of the Cherokee Nation put on the annual Rumble in the Rhododendrons on the outskirts of the Great Smokey Mountains National Park and I got to spend Sunday as a “Judge.” The event is arguably the most prestigious fly fishing competition in the country and as a Judge I was allowed to spend the day documenting the catches of Kevin Howell and Paul Thompson.

Those that follow fly fishing are familiar with those names. Kevin is the owner of Davidson River Outfitters and has been featured on numerous TV shows, magazine articles and the internet, and is a favorite to out fish just about anyone he’s up against. A past winner of the Fly Fishing Masters competition, Kevin knows his way around a trout stream.

And Paul Thompson, a three-time champion of the Total Outdoorsman Challenge put on by Field & Stream magazine, is no slouch either. In addition to being a first rate fly-fisherman, Paul is rapidly developing into one of the better artists that I’ve run across. He specializes in ‘Scratch Board” art and his creativity and attention to detail are amazing.

Needless to say, as last year’s winning team, they entered this year’s event as the favorites. On Saturday, in the casting competition they finished first, giving them first choice of the beats to be fished on Sunday...they picked my beat.

Have you ever had the chance to study the techniques of two masters of their craft? I spent a total of four hours studying the techniques of two of the best as they fished in VERY difficult conditions. The Raven’s Fork was high, fast and more than a little off color. The rains that caused the flooding throughout the southeast over the past two weeks did not spare this little corner of trout fishing heaven.

The fishing competition was divided into two, two hour sessions. The winners of the first session would be allowed to have their choice of beats for the second session. Well, Kevin and Paul walked away with the first session and to my delight elected to stay on the same beat for session number two. Class continued!

Fishing as deep as they could with no added weight allowed, my guys managed to score five nice trout in session number one. Session two was different. They struggled just as much as the other teams did in the first session and it led to an overall finish of fourth. Competition is that way. Especially if you're up against the best in the land. Can I put the lessons learned to good use? Time will tell, but let me tell you...these guys are good. All of them. You'll be able to link to the Rumble's website in a few days to grab the details.

As great as the competition was, the true highlight of the day was getting to meet and visit with Curtis Fleming of Fly Rod Chronicles. If you've seen his weekly show on The Sportsman's Channel, you know that Curtis doesn't put on a slick "how-to" clinic. His show is as down to earth as the last outing you took with your best buddies, and regular viewers know that Curtis has a soft spot in his heart for our veterans. Many of his shows have featured Ed Nicholson, the founder of Project Healing Waters, and many of the Wounded Warriors that I've had the privilege to get to know over the past year. John Bass, Josh Williams, Billy Davis, Sgt. Mancini...the list goes on. For the second year in a row, Curtis and his crew were at the Rumble to record the competition.

As I had previously created a commemorative print that Project Healing Waters is giving to our vets and volunteers, it was only fitting to give a framed one to Curtis, one of our organization's greatest promoters. It was my honor to present it to him. And for those of you that might wonder...the Curtis you see on TV is the same guy that I met on Sunday. His kindness and accepting nature is, (and regular viewers will recognize this phrase), "Bigger than Dollywood!"

Tools of the trade...just a bit of Kevin and Paul's equipment


The Preparation...Kevin Howell


The Execution...Paul Thompson


Curtis and I

A R-eel Fish Story

Check out this article from last week's Sea Breeze News. An old friend just sent it to me and it's too good not to share. He thought I could "relate" to it. Not sure if he thought I could relate to the catch or to the beer drinking that was involved.

PS...I WILL NOT be doing a colored pencil rendition of the catch.