MOLDY CHUM

The Shack Nasties

A brilliant Bruce Smithhammer rant ripped from the pages of Mountain Gazette.

It’s late January, and if I find myself leafing through one more tired article on the MONSTER BROOK TROUT OF LABRADOR, or GUARANTEED TACTICS FOR STILLWATER HAWGS, I’m going to lose it. Fishing rags — why do I buy them again and again? Paying for the privilege of skimming through something that’s 70-percent advertising and 20-percent slight variations on last year’s articles? Vowing to never again fork over well-earned coin for this drivel, pulp flies across the room, earning one eye open from the canus domesticus. Of course, this steadfast oath will no doubt weaken to sheepish excuses yet again come early December, as I try to stoically make it past the magazine racks pretending to be above all this tawdry fish porn.  LINK

The image above is from another on-line article describing this dreaded affliction. VIA Fly Anglers On Line LINK

The girl, the trout and the bikini (or, How my career as a professional fly fisherman swam away)

Larry Myhre gives us another excuse to post some more bikini imagery.

Here I was lying on my back at the side of the river, the biggest trout I had ever seen finning just over the bank and a beautiful young girl in a bikini was sunbathing in a rubber boat tied to a bush right beside me.

VIA Sioux City Journal  LINK

Man's Best Friend?

You terrier owners out there will especially appreciate this chapter of Tales from the Loch.

Bruce Sandison is a writer and journalist and author of nine books, including the definitive anglers' guide, The Rivers and Lochs of Scotland. He has contributed to most angling magazines over the years and his work has also appeared in a wide range of UK newspapers and journals, and on BBC radio and television.

VIA Fly Fisher's Republic LINK

A Shake of the Head

A Patagonia field essay by John Dutton

Fly fishing, I grant you, takes skill to cast, a practiced eye to find fish and a subtle presentation to convince the fish to take a collection of feathers, and perhaps some fast reflexes to hook the fish when the opportunity rises. But an action sport? No. Whenever I’d read fishing writers’ reports of heart-stopping action I always just shook my head.  LINK

Ate Weight

   

A dispatch by friend and colleague Walt Baily.

Bubble trail; Reaching with my mind and not with my hands…slow motion. Happened so fast.

The sound of a pacific ground swell hitting the steep Mexican beach like artillery fire jerks me awake.  Little sleep, too excited. I’m in Mexico with the Patagonia Sales Force on a trip we’ve been planning for some time. The sun has yet to rise and my board has no wax or fins. I’ll need coffee first.

12 of us step onto the Panga, each with a board, fewer still with rods. They call it multisport or multitasking?  Not sure, think I typically qualify for both.  First surf spot no, second no, the third is a go. Splash. OK now I’m smiling. Jet lag washes away.  We jump off the panga into the clear pacific water and paddle to the reef break with ample waist to chest rights. Been waiting for the trip with baited breath, little did I know what the bait might be…

I’m first back to the boat. Tired, hungry and curious what lurks underneath. String up the 8 weight and make some casts. Nothing. Slowly, the remaining 11 paddle back to the boat with big smiles and limp arms.  I ask the captain to give me a shot at any fish we see on the way back. Birds and the telltale sight of explosions in the water visible from over a mile away spark more than a little excitement. Go faster, go, faster. Tuna? No, Jacks and big ones too. 8 weight and 30-60lb fish. It’s all I’ve got, maybe it will work… Cast, stay upright in the swell that’s rocking the boat, fight the nerves, hurry, they’re everywhere, watch for tangled fly line on the bow cleat.  It’s all part of the allure to saltwater flyfishing. Feel the eyes on me from within the water and without.  Man, these are big fish. We’re downwind too far, run upwind….no cast over the shoulder to that group. Strip, strip…FISH ON! Matt helps me clear the fly line tangled on the bow cleat.  Cheers from the peanut gallery. Dismay from the reel.  He’s into the backing and it’s going fast.  The drag on this reel is nowhere near enough…palm the side to slow him down.  The backing instantly cuts nearly to the bone on my line finger. Point the rod at the fish, palm reel… pull line finger back

How it happened I’ll never quite know. The story will be forever be burned into my memory by the bubble trail leaving the reel as it, attached to the rod, screamed through the water with my hand no longer attached to it. Matters are only made worse by the witnesses. They call it an ate weight right? 

I’m gonna need something for the pain. The jokes are getting old. Washing away sorrow in Mexico….

Fly Fishing Ducks 101: Matching the Hatch

Now I learned something about duck behavior and anatomy in one simple lesson. a) you can hook a duck and b) they will fly away. LINK

Swimming with Trout

Another fly fishing story ripped from the pages of Mountain Gazette.

Swimming with Trout - Chad Hansen

Emmett shook his head and said, “You’re not in Wisconsin anymore. It doesn’t work like that in Wyoming. Whoever posted these signs owns both banks and the riverbed too.”

“The riverbed too,” I wondered out loud, “How could that be?”

LINK

The Heart of Winter

The second in a series of posts from the pages of the Mountain Gazette.

The Heart of Winter - By Mac Griffith

The winter of 1986 was the coldest time I knew, and I only survived by standing in the Frying Pan River. I do not speak of statistics, although I was one. Somewhere there are dusty numbers describing temperature and snowfall for that brutal winter. These numbers, whatever they are, can give me no lie, for they, for me, were not the measure of that winter. I was becoming a divorce statistic, the first and only of my life, and life was cold.

LINK

On Fishing and Love

The first in a series of posts from the pages of Mountain Gazette

On Fishing and Love by Kerry Brophy
 
For me, fly-fishing is tied like an overhand knot to love. It means casting out, reeling in, taking home or letting go. Through fishing I’ve come to terms with the love of a boy, the love of casting out in a wild place and the love for a father in poor health. 

LINK