What exactly does one really need, equipment-wise, to fly fish?
Will we really be more successful with a $500 Tibor reel or a $600 Orvis rod?
We've been stunned by the dumb ray of consumerism.
If we spent more time on the river and less window shopping, we'd not only catch more fish, but we could sock that money away toward a charter out to an Alaskan fishing camp or at least a new tie rod for the F-150.
When I think of the legends of fly fishing in the golden age of bamboo Grangers and bullet-proof Hardys, I can't help imagine what they'd say about us dandies with our featherlite waders, titanium gadget yokes and $200 eco-friendly nets.
A man needs but a decent rod and reel and a willingness to listen to the river.
It's no wonder people scoff at fly fishermen as if we were golfers sporting plaid knickers. What's next, fish finders?
Monday, August 23, 2010
Completing the circle
Like the realization of following a sticky compass toward an errant direction, I changed my plans from planning an early-autumn fishing trip to the Catskills to head up to the Adirondacks to fish the Au Sable River with my buddy, Jerry.
It's been years since I've fished either branch. And since moving back to the Northeast from South Carolina two years ago, I figured why not take the opportunity to get back to the waters in which I had learned to fly fish more than 20 years ago?
Then it hit me: It will have been a year, nearly to the day, since legendary fly tier and fisherman Fran Betters passed.
And when Jerry and I slip quietly into the river amid the pall of toolie fog and scent of fresh balsam and stream-wet rocks, I will fasten the same Au Sable Wulff that Fran tied for me not quite two months before his death.
It's amazing to me all the people I've told this story to, about how Fran tied some of his famous Wulffs for me more than 20 years ago and pointed me in the right direction. You can read that story at http://tippetandleader.blogspot.com/2009/07/for-better-or-for-worse.html, along with some other thoughts.
It's also amazing to me that what I have along with a handful of Wulffs, a hand that still remembers Fran's gentle handshake, and the joy that my oldest boy, Kostyn, got to meet the legend, that this story will nearly complete its full circle in a couple of weeks.
Like the gentle ripple from softly cast fly, so is Fran's legacy.
It's been years since I've fished either branch. And since moving back to the Northeast from South Carolina two years ago, I figured why not take the opportunity to get back to the waters in which I had learned to fly fish more than 20 years ago?
Then it hit me: It will have been a year, nearly to the day, since legendary fly tier and fisherman Fran Betters passed.
And when Jerry and I slip quietly into the river amid the pall of toolie fog and scent of fresh balsam and stream-wet rocks, I will fasten the same Au Sable Wulff that Fran tied for me not quite two months before his death.
It's amazing to me all the people I've told this story to, about how Fran tied some of his famous Wulffs for me more than 20 years ago and pointed me in the right direction. You can read that story at http://tippetandleader.blogspot.com/2009/07/for-better-or-for-worse.html, along with some other thoughts.
It's also amazing to me that what I have along with a handful of Wulffs, a hand that still remembers Fran's gentle handshake, and the joy that my oldest boy, Kostyn, got to meet the legend, that this story will nearly complete its full circle in a couple of weeks.
Like the gentle ripple from softly cast fly, so is Fran's legacy.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Ghosts of anglers past
Many men have trodden upon these creekside paths long before I. They've kicked the very same sand on the beaches I've surf-cast from. They've waded the very same waters, ate from the same blackberry bushes and looked up over the very same mountains to see where the wet balsam-soaked breeze was coming from.
Did they use a blue winged olive or a was it the light Cahill? Did they cast right off that eddy, or did they let their line float gently through it? I wonder if they sat on this bank, watching the beauty and grace of a 12-inch brown between the flecks of light shining through breeze-blown maple leaves.
Sometimes I'm there with them. They are casting perfectly above me, and I'm OK with that. The water doesn't move around them. They are unnoticed by everyone. Sometimes it's an old man with a split-cane rod propped upon a rock. Or a young boy with a creel full of rainbows for his mama to make for supper. Sometimes it's my father, who's looking deep into the riffle to see what's stone and what's flesh, and who's face he sees in the reflection.
I talk with them, I do. I write notes to them with my cast. "It's amazing, isn't it?" They never answer, but they smile back, proud like the father of a boy who's learned and is carrying on tradition, if not his legacy.
Did they use a blue winged olive or a was it the light Cahill? Did they cast right off that eddy, or did they let their line float gently through it? I wonder if they sat on this bank, watching the beauty and grace of a 12-inch brown between the flecks of light shining through breeze-blown maple leaves.
Sometimes I'm there with them. They are casting perfectly above me, and I'm OK with that. The water doesn't move around them. They are unnoticed by everyone. Sometimes it's an old man with a split-cane rod propped upon a rock. Or a young boy with a creel full of rainbows for his mama to make for supper. Sometimes it's my father, who's looking deep into the riffle to see what's stone and what's flesh, and who's face he sees in the reflection.
I talk with them, I do. I write notes to them with my cast. "It's amazing, isn't it?" They never answer, but they smile back, proud like the father of a boy who's learned and is carrying on tradition, if not his legacy.
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