Fine and Far Off

"Fly tackle has improved considerably since 1676, when Charles Cotton advised anglers to 'fish fine and far off,' but no one has ever improved on that statement." 

-John Gierach

Happy place

Here I sit, nestled in a warm bed listening to the sound of the wood stove crackling. The winter season is upon us and I eagerly wait for the dawn to come. The river is low,clear and cold right now and I am thinking of summer spots that I will fish tomorrow. So good to be where I am. Nothing can steal my joy. The sight of my fly fishing well through the green currents is all I can think of as I drift off to sleep..........

Superlative

The water beckoned to me as I drove down the river. The carnage from the last high water event was evident and extensive.New gravel bars have formed and old gravel bars were wiped away. In their place there are new pockets,buckets and runs.And so begins the endless winter process of building up and tearing down.The river never resting,always moving,always building and always destroying.

Sticks,logs and other debris have seemingly climbed the trees as they now rest in the branches high above the ground. Shoreline trees are bent over like an old man struggling against the wind. Their permanently twisted shapes lining the banks in a salute to the power of the river.The sand is clean on the beaches with only the eroded lines of a rapidly dropping river left as a calling card from the tumultuous levels that have just now subsided.There are no human tracks anywhere and only the odd bird, otter,or raccoon footprint mark the surface. It is a new river and a New Year. The quiet stillness of a river after it drops brings on a euphoria that is hard to explain. I stare blankly into the winter green currents as they playfully turn and twist,racing each other to the ocean.

I step into the river and cast a short line, swinging it all the way to the bank as currents and depths are conducive and allow the fly to swing to a full hang-down. My mind is somewhere else as I enjoy the feel of the rod in my hands in this New Year. The casts are coming easily and I step slowly through the upper section of the run. The fly searches diligently for a new fish that may have rode the high water upstream. I picture the fly swimming in my minds eye. I think at times I actually feel the tension on the materials as the river caresses it through the entire drift. Everything is perfect. The river, the sunshine,and the blessing that I feel to be standing where I am right now. This is good for my soul.

The line tightens agonizingly slow, the Daiwa 812 gives 6 inches of line and clicks a few times. Wait for it.......Bam!!! I raise the rod firmly and strike a heavy fish.He shakes his massive head in disagreement of his new found predicament and the rod throbs in tandem. I fight this fish quickly and cleanly, nothing truly remarkable about it,just a good solid fight. As I slide him into the shallows, I am awed by his size.He is easily the largest fish I have seen in winter in quite some time.He is perfect in every way with barely a hint of rose along the side and cheek.I am awed by his strength. I am awed by his beauty.  In a dream like state,I twist the hook out of this magnificent creature, watching his silver body glide silently into the main current and disappear.

Now I have not even begun to cover this run and I know there are probably more fish in it, but I know that I am done. Without hesitation, I break my rod down knowing I can do no better.I just hooked and landed my first fish of the New Year and it was more than enough for me. I stumble back to the truck floating on a cloud,arriving perhaps 10 minutes after I shut it's door to walk down to the run. I climb out of my waders and stow the rod, I am done for the day after a very short but very memorable session.

I am thankful for this New Year, and the gift of these incredible fish and the amazing community of like minded souls I find myself surrounded by.

Cherish each fish and each other my friends!

Reminisces from a Great Childhood

Dave Tucker recently posted on FB about his Grandson catching his first fish with Grandpa. As I read I thought "that is so very cool!".

Then I had a flash to the past and started thinking about my PaPa, Ernest Franklin Chenowith. He was my Mom's Dad and I loved him dearly.

I wish I could remember the first fish I caught fishing with my PaPa, but I can't. It just seems like he was always fishing with us. I do remember many, many trips with him and the good times we had.

I remember when I was 10 I had a new spinning reel and he took me to the "ponds" near the Grass Valley Highway. It was quite a walk and when we got out there I discovered my reel handle had backed itself off and was gone. I fished anyway and still caught a few. The man that owned the Western Auto store took a handle off a reel in his display case and gave it to me so I could fish while we were there. That was my first personal experience with outstanding customer service.

I also remember many trips to Rattlesnake Bar on Folsom Lake and stopping at the old store by the RR tracks for a strawberry pop. I remember Striped bass fishing with PaPa on the Sacramento River.

I don't remember the last fish I caught with him either but it might have been at Fish Lake in Southern Utah when he and Granny came for a visit.

I do remember the last fish I caught at his house, or at least one of them. He had a spring pond and had put a few bluegills in it that he'd procured? from a local lake. I caught those bluegills over and over and the last time I fished there I was 18. The next time I was there was to visit him as he lay dying in the hospital.

I raise a toast to you PaPa. Thank you for making a little boy's time on the water more special!

Classic Fly Art

A Lament

There is a scene in the movie Gladiator where the gladiator imagines his return to his home in Trujillo, Spain. He walks through the wheat field leading up to his house, right hand outstretched, his fingertips brushing the wheat flower.

It is a scene that has stayed with me since I first saw it, so strong visually, almost evoking a sense of melancholy.

On every river, every time I fish, when I think no one is watching, I allow my fingertips to drag in the flow. The cold always comes as a shock, although it should not - steelhead are creatures of cold water. I can always feel the water dragging past my fingertips, as though steelhead water is possessed of a special friction.

I have lived the life of a city dweller, trading crowded schoolroom for busy office. I drive crowded highways to work, drinking coffee that others prepare for me. My food is rendered by others, often to the point that I no longer recognise the source.

I touch water most weekends but only touch something truly wild 10 or perhaps 15 times a year, when I land a steelhead.

I know my brother Ken aspires to fish without a hook point, in homage to our fish. He is inspired by one of the ghostly figures of our sport.

I find a I cannot consider doing so - the act of touching something truly wild comes to me so few times in a year, in a lifetime - I certainly cannot do so.

Not so long ago, a river, a river of my heart, opened for the first time in several years.

Only 600 fish have returned, from a race that once numbered 6000.

I will not fish, even though I could. With only 600 fish, if I risk killing even one, the loss is too much. I cannot face the possibility.

And to fish with no hook? Pointless, if the object of my desire is to touch something truly wild.

For now, I stand on the bank, unable to drag my fingertips through the water, with only memories of wild beasts.

Will the run ever recover? Will I ever feel the friction of those drops of hope, dragging against my fingertips, on the River of My Heart?

Undertaker