The Catcher in the Wheat

 Small explosions of dust marked each step as I ambled toward my destination,some half mile distant down the dry, hard pan dirt road. My right knee felt as though a couple of mad carpenters were using forty grit sandpaper to furiously grind away at what remained of the cushioning in my right knee. The knee creaked audibly and each step immediately flashed a high intensity signal to the pain receptors in my brain. These aches at least reminded me that I was still alive, unlike several of my fishing buddies, and that I was blessed to be able to continue to peer into the maddeningly detached eyes of a trout. I was inspired by the thought that I had somehow been left here to catch a few for my friends, so I pressed onward. The pain also reminded me to go ahead and make an appointment with that son of a bitch orthopedic surgeon who had none too subtly told me that I would return, sooner or later, for a knee replacement. The trout were getting increasingly difficult to approach physically as I aged, but remained within easy reach in my library of sweet memories. I could only pray that the joy of reliving my good days on the stream would not eventually be stolen by the cruelty of Alzhiemer’s Disease, as had happened to my great grandfather.

 The summer sun fell hard across my face, reminding me of the wife’s admonitions to wear a hat and extra high SPF sunscreen. She rightly reminded me of the three skin lesions Doc Underhill had removed from my face this winter past. They turned out to be something he called squamous cell cancer. “Too many days out in the sun chasing those trout around, I suppose.” he had theorized. “Be more careful, or I may have to whack off half your face next time!” he warned. ”You won’t be much to look at after that.’ he added solemnly. “Not that anybody wants to look at the face I have now”, I remembered thinking as I mumbled some appreciation for his concern.

  My right hand bore an ancient fly rod case crafted from a sturdy piece of oak and some canvas and string. It had been constructed when TR was in office, I had eventually discovered. The rod within had belonged to my great-grandfather. He had been the intellectual type, a college professor teaching English Lit at one of those ivy covered schools in the northeast. Fly fishing for trout seemed to be an appropriate pastime for men like him and he took to it like a big brown to a caddis fly. When he finally moved on to that eternal stream where the fish are all large and take flies just often enough, he bequeathed his precious rod to his son. John, however, showed no interest in it.Neither did his son, who left it in a dark corner of a basement until the natural progression of time led to it being placed in my eager hands.

 My own vocation was, in a way, similar to that of my forebear. I had been consumed from youth by a desire to understand how the universe had been designed and the principles that bind it all together. For forty five years, I had spent the biggest part of my life in the research lab, seeking to unlock some of nature’s biggest riddles. My work had been interrupted only by visits to the nearby stream to try to solve the equally difficult riddle of getting trout to eat my creations of feather and fur. I found casting to be relaxing, almost meditative, often opening my mind to a sort of left brain activity that I hoped might connect the dots in my right brain to answer some question of theoretical physics I was wrestling with at the time. There seemed to be some correlation, as I had noted a certain similarity between Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle and my trout fishing- I found that I could be sure of the location of a given trout , and what fly might be necessary to imitate the insects hatching at the moment , but I was unable to predict both simultaneously.

  Sunlight refracted off the waist high wheat in the fields alongside the old road as I marveled at the uniformity of each stalks’ height. It looked as if some Middle Eastern rug maker had snipped all of them at the same length, creating an undulating, living carpet of lager colored grain. As I walked on, I noted the antique split rail fence separating the wheat from the livestock around the barn. It was obviously very old. Its surfaces were coated with lime green mosses and grayish  lichens. An occasional mushroom sprouted from its wood, softened with age and countless rain storms. I guessed it must have been at least fifty years old, but nonetheless, the Guernsey cows that grazed within its borders remained properly restrained, unaware of the ease with which they could have simply walked through the mostly rotten wood.

 A short distance away, the rails led to a battered old barn. Its walls had long since been bleached by the sun to a grayish white color not unlike that of my beard. Some of the boards were loose, one end forlornly dangling towards the ground. Its tin roof sported large patches of rust and a few areas were devoid of metal altogether. The door and window hinges appeared rusted shut and unusable. The entire building leaned precariously to port. I did a few quick calculations mentally and guessed the entire structure might collapse in another four and a half months.

  A loud creaking sound filled the air when the farmer, appearing nearly as old as his barn, opened the side door.  “Sorry if I startled you. I need to put some oil on that hinge”, the old man remarked as I neared him. “No problem”, I replied.  “I thought maybe it was my worn out knee”. “Gonna try them trout again today?” he inquired. “I get lucky with ‘em once it a while”, I responded as I continued my journey.  Our vectors diverged, his to his beat up pickup and mine towards the stream where I hoped to land a nice brown today.

  I had studied the hatch charts and checked the weather conditions the previous evening. A cloudless sky with a slight breeze from the southeast had been predicted by the Weather Channel. This time of year, I might expect the wind to deliver a few hoppers from the grasses lining the stream and so I tied on a medium sized foam hopper pattern. It was just the right shade of green and even had a bright white piece of foam tied its most upper section. I figured it would be a triple threat- conditions called for hoppers, the foam fly would float high, and the white patch would make it easy to see, even for my now failing eyesight.

 A blowdown jutted into the stream from the opposite bank. I knew there was a deep pool just beyond the downed tree. It was the kind of place a brown trout dreams about, and the kind of place I was dying to float a hopper over. As I assembled the rod’s bamboo pieces, I marveled at how wonderfully constructed this wood really is. Its strength to weight ratio is remarkable, and it is used in the Orient for everything from chopsticks to scaffolding for high rise construction. The fly rod’s wood remained sound, but the antique agate guides clearly showed their age. Frayed tags extended from each wrap where I had done my best to super glue them back into place without destroying the rod in the process. The reel seat was worn and loose, and had required re-gluing last year, but overall, the rod was still quite functional. I yearned for a new boron rod, with its superfast action and completely indestructible guides, but that idea had been vetoed by the wife.  My well conceived, logical arguments about a lifetime warrantee being such a good investment fell on unsympathetic ears. I secretly continued to lust for the high tech rod, and had even clandestinely brought a fly fishing catalog along this morning, so I could fill out the order form away from prying eyes.

  Hopper in place, I lofted the century old bamboo into the nearly still morning air. Its action was not unlike watching a movie shot in super slow motion. I could almost take a sip from the brandy flask in my hip pocket while I waited for the back cast to unfurl. But, when the rod was brought forward, the line unrolled into a slow, smooth, tight loop that could bring a tear to the eye of any true fly fisherman. After a single back cast, I let slip the weight forward floating line bearing my offering to the Trout-God. Weightlessly falling, the fly seemed to defy Newton’s Law as it alighted ever so gently on the water, barely disturbing the surface tension.

  The hopper moved as one with the current, no telltale drag to be seen. The attached fluorocarbon leader belied its true intent, winking at the fish beneath the water’s surface, while inviting them up for a delicious meal, free for the taking.  A flash of brown, interrupted by black and red blurs, appeared and disappeared simultaneously. The hopper was gone. The old bamboo rod bent over, almost begging in its agony, for me to let this big fish run for now. I complied and the big brown raced down current, seeking to relieve itself of the hopper and its size 10 hook. Unlike most browns, this one proved its athletic prowess by leaping high into the morning sunlight, to my very great delight. I doubt that the rod had seldom been called on to handle such a challenge, but it performed flawlessly. I tried to calculate the bending moments being placed on the rod, and the tensile strength of bamboo and tippet, factoring in the rod’s age and the effect of its being wet, as well as the angle of the line to the water, but finally gave up and fought the fish by feel. Each surge was transmitted to my hand, and I used this tactile feedback to put what pressure I thought appropriate to bring the fish to hand. Slowly, I began to win, but was careful to let the brown have it his way when necessary. The bamboo groaned and maybe even creaked a little, not unlike my worn out old knee, but never gave in. The softness of its action allowed it to flex deep into its length, all the way down to the handle, providing at once a challenge and simultaneously the deep satisfaction of control without exerting total physical domination. I delicately guided the fish ever closer.

  After about ten minutes, I held in my net a magnificently colored brown, weighing some eleven pounds.  I carefully released back to its home what was easily the biggest fish of my life.

  Shaken, I noticed the stump of a cut down tree. It made a convenient stool and I sat down to savor my experience. Reaching into my pack, I pulled out a Cohiba, sliced off the end, and lit up. After a deep draw, I retrieved my flask and enjoyed a sip of my favorite brandy. After a few minutes, I noticed the catalog order form for the new rod where it had been neatly placed in my day pack alongside the Cuban cigar. I quickly grabbed it, inspected it briefly, then crumpled it into a ball and stuffed it into my pack.

At Christmas, What Goes Around Comes Around

Author’s Note- This post was Originally Posted on December 13, 2011by castingawayblog. It iis re-posted today for the holiday season. Please do what you can to help less fortunate children in our community to have a happy Christmas. This is what the holidays are all about. Thank you for reading my work and especially for helping the kids.

 

Joey had grown to despise Christmas.

It was Christmas Eve, and he sat on the edge of the stained brown sofa that served as his bed in the tattered little camper that he and his Mom called home.  The  camper , forlorn and drafty, sat tucked into the edge of the forest on a farm, far out in the country. The farmer, now in his seventies, allowed Joey and his Mom to keep the rusted camper parked there at no charge. They had been living there since Joey’s dad had disappeared one night a while back. Joey had no specific recollections of his father, just a couple of vague fuzzy memories of a large bearded man who seemed always angry and wobbly. He seemed to recall him being mean to his Mom, and being frightened when Dad was around. One night, his Dad had pulled on his coat, opened one last beer, and stormed angrily out of the house where they had been living in town, loudly slamming the door as he departed. Joey and his Mom never saw him again. That was Joey’s third Christmas, and his Mom prayed that he would not be able to remember the absence of gifts that year.

Joey’s mom was ill. She had been diagnosed with what the doctors called rheumatoid arthritis. Before she became ill, she had worked as a hygienist in a local dentist’s office. But her hands had soon become so grotesquely deformed by the ravages of the disease slowly destroying her body that she was forced to quit. She was no longer able to even hold the tools in her delicate hands, much less perform the exacting work required by her occupation.  She became desperate, now having a young son to care for with no husband, and no other family to help her. Her medications , while unable to rid her of this affliction, at least made existence tolerable. The drugs were horribly expensive, and soon she depleted her meager savings, and was forced to sell the small wood frame house where she, her husband, and Joey had lived. She applied for disability, Medicaid, and every other state and federal program she could find. The sole living accommodations she had been able to secure came in the form of a highly used small camper, which the seller kindly positioned on the farm of one of her former patients. The little money that came in the form of a government check had allowed her to run electricity to the camper, and pay for the very bare necessities of life, food, second hand clothes from Goodwill, and her medications, but precious little else.

Fortunately, Joey and his Mom lived in the southern part of the country, with its moderate temperatures. Still, the mercury frequently dipped into the twenties here, and their sole defense against the cold was a small electric heater. Joey’s mom worried continually about the very real risk of a fire. All it would take would be for a stray piece of paper to fall against the glowing orange coils of the heater. Thus far, they had been lucky.

Joey sat on the couch and stared into the heater’s coils, dreaming about Christmas. He was eight now, and a third grader at the local elementary school. Though his clothes were old and worn, they were always clean. His Mom made sure of that. Despite crooked fingers and twisted wrists, she ignored the pain and dutifully washed Joey’s clothes by hand. “He may not be able to wear nice new clothes, but he can wear clean ones”, she told herself as she hung his few shirts and socks on the wire line behind the camper. Joey was all she had now, the only thing in her life that made any sense. She was fiercely determined to keep herself sufficiently functional that she could care for him by preparing meals, washing his clothes, and helping him with his schoolwork. Joey had never heard her complain about the pain. He saw only a smile when he looked at her, never seeing her nightly tears after Joey had drifted off to sleep on that couch.

He had heard the other kid’s excitedly chattering about their Christmas lists. Henry wanted a new bike. Linda had been to the mall and asked Santa for a Barbie Dream House.  Barry was hopeful that he would awake to find a Xbox Kinnect under his tree. When his classmates asked what he wanted, he wistfully asked for a bike, so he could ride around all over Mr. McPherson’s farm after school. Silently, Joey also wished for something more practical, a new jacket. His coat was old and ripped in several places. The zipper was broken, so he was unable to seal it against the chilly winds of December. That bike would be really nice though.

Joey’s memories of Christmas stirred a variety of feelings within him. Each Christmas Eve, he would finally go to sleep after hours of dreaming and hoping for bright shiny toys and a red bike with coaster brakes. Each Christmas morning, he awoke to an empty camper. The only gifts he might see were a few pieces of candy and fruit, and maybe a Goodwill shirt. Of course, he was happy to be able to enjoy these treats, but soon began crying as he thought about his friends at school, and all the wonderful things Santa probably left for them. He knew he would hear all about it when school reconvened in January, and it hurt him deeply. With tears in his eyes, he looked up at his Mom, only to see her turn away, her own silent tears running in rivers down her face.

So Joey had begun to question this whole Christmas business. Why did Santa seem to always find his playmates?  Could Santa not find his camper? Did Santa forget that he and his Mom had moved from their old house to this place out in the country?  Joey soon grew angry about it, and hated the approach of the holidays. He was not sure which he dreaded more- Christmas morning or the return to a class of happy and excited classmates after the holiday break. Still, as darkness began to fall on the farm, and the camper, he simply was unable to avoid the hope that somehow Santa might find him and his Mom again. Maybe THIS year he thought. He knew he might not be able to bear it again this year if he awoke to disappointment yet again. Then he had an idea. He slid off the couch, and found the star that he had made during art class at school. He opened the camper door and taped it to the metal side, above the tiny window. “Maybe this will help Santa find us!” He went back inside, closed the door, and lay back on the couch. He pulled up the thin old quilt his grandmother had made many years ago before she died, and soon was fast asleep, visions of red bicycles spinning around his little head.

Back in November, Joey’s mom had discovered a program for less fortunate families that promised to help them this year.  Though it did hurt her pride a bit, the thought of Joey’s face upon seeing a real Christmas quickly overcame any perception of shame. “I don’t need anything for myself,” she had told the nice lady from the local Baptist church. “But anything you could do for my Joey would be, well, just wonderful! Thank you so very much for your kindness.” “Don’t thank me. I have an anonymous donor who wants to help”. “God bless him!” was Joey’s Mom’s response.

Christmas morning dawned clear, and Joey’s eyes popped open. He jumped out of bed, and his eyes popped open even wider. “Mom! Mom! Look what Santa brought me!!!!   A new jacket! Fleece lined! And its red, my favorite color!” “I know,” she said, “He left me something as well!” She held in her hands a new dress, one that she would not be embarrassed to wear in public. “Looks like we will be able to go to church now”, she added.

 

Joey hurriedly tried on his new jacket. It fit perfectly. He stuck his hands deep into the pockets. “Mom, there’s something in the pocket” said Joey, feeling a piece of paper. Withdrawing it from the pocket, he unfolded it. “MOM!!!  It’s a note from Santa!!!” “What does it say?” she asked. “It says Dear Joey, I am so sorry I have not been able to find you for the past couple of Christmases. Maybe this will help. I left you another present, but I couldn’t get it in the camper, so I left it outside. I hope you like it. Be a good boy and I’ll see you next year!”

 

Joey threw open wide the camper door, nearly tearing it off its rusty hinges. There, beneath the star Joey had taped to the side of the camper, sat a bright, shiny, brand new red bike.

 

Across the field, Mr. McPherson stood at his living room window, holding a hot mug of coffee.  His gaze was fixed on the small camper on the other side of the cornfield.  He watched as Joey first jumped for joy, then jumped on his new bike, and tore off down the dirt road in front of the camper, wearing his matching red jacket.

The farmer turned to his wife and said “ I always wanted a red bike too. Seems I finally got my Christmas wish after all these years!’ He smiled broadly, put down the cup and gave his wife a huge Christmas hug.

Trading Places

Fred with a twenty two inch redfish taken on the fly at Hobcaw Barony

All those many days spent standing rod in hand on the bow of a flats boat recall my days at sea on a destroyer. There was I, junior officer of the deck, glasses in hand, scanning the sea surface from the bridge wing for Soviet vessels prowling the tempestuous North Atlantic. Perched high above on the masthead, the ship’s radar antennae simultaneously sifted through the wave returns and displayed targets well in advance of my Mark 1 eyeballs, as young and keen as they might have been. Attempts to insert some form of logic into naval surveillance methodology proved an invitation to frustration. So, I held the heavy binoculars to my face and at least pretended to search for the Red Menace.

A “Tin Can” underway at sea

Often have I reflected, while on bonefish watch, how similar these later marine experiences are to those of my naval youth. My Bahamian guides have uniformly been several orders of magnitude better than me in spotting bonefish and other sundry species than I fear I will ever be. I have now swapped my government issue binoculars for fancy prescription sunglasses whose cost is north of two hundred dollars, but even these have not resulted in enhancing my fish locating skills. Like shipboard radar, the guides, positioned high above on poling platforms, divine the presence of fish well ahead of my  now aging eyes. On occasion, while aboard ship, I imagined what it might be like to be the Captain. “Make your course three-five zero.” “Ready the forward turret!” “Belay my last.” All very impressive to a young man such as myself who had never experienced the command role. Of course, I was completely unable to appreciate the burdens of command and responsibility at that point in my tender life. Similarly, I have considered the role of the guide whose job it is to pole the boat, point out the fish, and release them once landed. He must be able to find fish in all circumstances, operate the boat and its engine, tie sturdy knots, understand weather patterns, and even be a therapist to disappointed anglers.  As I have gathered increasing appreciation for the many attributes required to be a successful guide, I have pondered if I might have the right stuff for the job. I have spent many days on the sea, and have considerable experience catching all manner of saltwater species. I have served in the Navy and have skippered my own flats boat for quite a few years now. It seemed that guiding might add a new and interesting dimension to my overall fishing career. Enhanced by a couple of glasses of Cabernet, my mind began to conjure images of poling a small boat, finding the client’s target fish, and directing his gaze to said fish. In my vision, he then lays out a seventy five foot cast with a six inch wide loop that gently touches down eight inches from the tailing bonefish’s head. The fish immediately inhales the fly, and after a ten minute epic struggle of mano a fish-o , I release a ten pounder, digital memories appropriately recorded.

Guide hard at work poling boat for client seeking bonefish

Recently my good friend Steve called and inquired if I might be able to guide a client one day for him. Steve had enjoyed a relaxing and productive day of redfishing with me in my ten foot long electric boat and was anxious for his client to try stalking redfish at Hobcaw Barony in this shallow draft stealthy craft. I was totally enthralled by the idea. I immediately jumped at the chance and it was decided. All that was left was to substitute redfish for the bonefish of my imaginings. Soon, I would see if reality would meet my expectations. Like Eddie Murphy in the movie “Trading Places”, it was now time to see how the other half lives. I was fascinated to see if the square end of the boat would be as much fun as the pointy end. Reality would prove much more interesting than my fantasies. I awoke an hour before the five AM setting on my bedside alarm and quickly readied myself for my ab initio guiding experience. I find most new experiences, provided they are of my own choosing, to be exciting, and this day was no different.  Coffee cup in hand, I hitched the ten foot twin electric fishing boat to my Tahoe and mentally punched in the coordinates of my destination - Hobcaw Barony, hard by the city of Georgetown. I had loaded all my gear the previous evening, lest I neglect some critical piece of equipment needed for a successful day redfishing. I had prepped the boat two days earlier by taking my wife on a photo safari on the nearby Little Pee Dee River in order to break in the new 2.3 HP Honda motor that now adorns the stern of my vessel. I had reasoned that this extra propulsion might save the day should the battery become exhausted or the current or wind too severe. I was, in true Boy Scout fashion, prepared for any and all exigencies, I reassured myself. “It’s going to be a really great day!” I thought, as the Tahoe turned south, towards redfish paradise. I met Fred, the client, and Steve, my friend the guide at Hobcaw, at the interpretive center, just off Highway 17 South. Fred was an impressive figure, perhaps six feet four inches tall, with a lean, athletic build. He exuded the look of a three point draining NBA point guard, or perhaps a fleet footed NFL wideout. Interestingly, he was neither. Fred, as it turned out, holds a VMD degree with specialty training in veterinary pathology.  He is employed by the federal government where his efforts  are directed at preventing acts of domestic agroterrorism.  Tracking the whereabouts of such nasty pathogens as the foot-and-mouth disease virus, African swine fever virus, classical swine fever virus, highly pathogenic avian influenza virus and others.  These pathogens are known as select agents in the government vernacular.  I am relieved to learn that the people in the Washington, D.C. area are alert to to such dangers and have folks like Fred working to protect our agriculture, and thus our economy.  Makes me sleep better. I just wonder what other devious ideas the terrorists may be attempting to perpetrate. Of course, it might be best if I do not know of such things. I’ll just trust the Freds of government worry about these disturbing matters.

A Twin Troller- the boat Fred and I fished that day

We drove away from the entrance and down a long gravel covered road towards our put-in spot, a small ramp barely large enough to launch my Twin Troller.  Along the way, we were treated to the sight of some of Hobcaw’s abundant wildlife, including a small flock of wild turkeys. Once at the launch site, I loaded onto the boat the push pole, our rods, flies, cameras, and small cooler. Fred and I donned our personal flotation devices as mandated by law. We wore the low profile type that automatically inflate when contacted by water, as this type creates minimal interference with the casting motion. Fred anxiously clamored aboard, ready to stick a redfish with his fly rod. I followed suit, and Steve pushed us off. An unusally high tide was forecast that morning, the primary reason we arrived so far ahead of the tide peak. The tables predicted over seven feet of saltwater rise that morning, so if we were to have a chance to spot the tails of redfish, we needed arrive well ahead of the tide. As a friend says so succinctly, “You must be present to win.”

And so it begins! As the fortunes of the day dictated, a steady strong wind blew from the Northeast, combining its power with that of the very large tide flow which was sweeping millions upon millions of gallons of water onto the flats where we hoped to locate those coppery tails, emblazoned with those distinctive black spots, wafting in the breeze. The initial step in that process was to crank the engine and head directly into wind and current to reach an area where we might cut through the expansive spartina grass to reach a productive small island where I had seen redfish on previous trips. My new engine, which had been carefully broken in as per factory instructions, became an exercise in exasperation now. I followed the cranking procedures to the letter. Though this previously had been totally effective, the engine remained stubbornly quiet. Now the boat drifted with the swift current, pushing us against the pilings of the small footbridge that led from the landing to the research building at the end of the pier. Embarrassed by this failure, I was finally able to get the engine started and we made our way past the research building, turned to port, and headed upstream to the target for today. The electric motors I had counted on to hold us steady as I started the auxiliary four stroke engine proved powerless against the rush of the massive tide bulling its way toward the flats. I was happy that Fred was facing forward, unable to see the redness on my face.

LESSON ONE- ALWAYS ENSURE THAT YOUR ENGINE IS MAKING ADEQUATE POWER BEFORE ENTERING HEAVY CURRENT!

We made satisfactory way up the creek and soon made an additional turn to port. As we were well ahead of the tide, I had hoped to use the power of the Honda to push us through the still tall and thick spartina grass until we reached the shoreline. At that point, the plan was to come right and make for what I have termed “Redfish Island.”  I began to notice large amounts of dead spartina grass filling the water’s surface now, being pushed by tide and wind into thick masses with no way to steer around them. The engine seemed to be producing much less than normal power, and as I turned in my seat to inspect it, I noted that Fred’s rod was missing in action. “Fred, ” I asked, “Where is your rod?” ” It was right here a minute ago” he responded. We managed a slow reversal of course and quickly found the rod. It was resting on spartina, the grass had silently pilfered it. We returned to our original heading, but very soon afterwards noticed that MY rod was MIA. Again, we located the rod easily and resumed our journey.

LESSON NUMBER TWO- SECURE ALL EQUIPMENT! EVEN IF THE BOAT IS SLOWER THAN A SLOTH WITH A BROKEN LEG.

By now, the engine was not capable of putting enough horsepower in the water to move us effectively, even when I added the additional capacity of both heavy-duty electric motors to the mix. I reasoned that the drag induced by the load of dead grass the boat was attempting to tow with us was the culprit. So, I elected to go overboard after checking water depth and the firmness of the bottom. After clearing as much as I could, I climbed back aboard with great difficulty. My artificial knees were not very compliant when I asked them to flex some 130 degrees so that I might climb over the gunwale and reclaim the helm. After much effort, and some discomfort, this bit of physical therapy allowed me assume the conn, despite my clumsiness. This maneuver was repeated several times, and I was reminded of a procedure used by the Navy. Minesweepers are built of wood, not iron, for obvious reasons. Nonetheless, the equipment onboard such as engines, generate magnetic fields, not something conducive to long term survival for any ship whose task it is to find and remove marine mines. To overcome this problem, the Navy uses something called a “degaussing station.” I have absolutely no understanding of the physics involved, but this equipment can effectively demagnetize these ships. I  wondered if the Navy might also possess tools to remove all this grass from my vessel-  perhaps a “degrassing station.” It turned out that much of the engine’s degraded performance was due to grass wrapped tightly around the prop hub. I was unable to remove this impediment to our progress, so fell back on the low tech push pole I had constructed some time ago from a long piece of hardwood closet rod and a metallic duckfoot attachment. I had included it as an afterthought the previous evening as I packed the truck.  It was too long to fit inside, so I had trimmed it to the absolute maximum that would fit inside the Tahoe. I had no way of securing it to the boat for transport,and was terrified of it departing the Twin Troller and striking another vehicle, or perhaps some innocent pedestrian. I now wondered if sufficient length remained to allow efficient poling of the boat. As it turned out, I was able to make yeoman’s work of the poling. At this point,my greatest fear was the potential failure of my arthritic shoulders, leaving us dead in the water. I had envisioned my role in this enterpraise as sitting at the after seat, operating the motor handle and the pedals for the electric motors. That should be completely untaxing on my arthitic sholders, neck, back and my two artifical knees.

LESSON THREE- ALWAYS CHECK GOOGLE EARTH TO SEE IF A MORE PROPICIOUS ROUTE TO YOUR INTENDED DESTINATION MIGHT BE AVAILABLE.

A naval degaussing facility.

I later saw on Google Earth that if I had followed that first large creek some distance further, I could have had deepwater, relatively free of debris, almost the entire way to the island. At this point,however, my only option was to turn directly upwind and pole towards Redfish Island, some half mile distant. Though the tide currents and the wind conspired to twist my bow in a thousand directions, I slowly managed to reach the island. I was tired now, but extremely thankful that my shoulders had not blown up. I was able to approach quietly to within ten feet of the island and began a slow counterclockwise circumnavigation. As we rounded the first small peninsula, I spotted a redfish tail. In typical fashion, it rooted the bottom, seeking crabs and mollusks for its breakfast. Fred assumed the position, and watched the red in complete fascination. “Cast now!” I urgently told Fred. He continued to stare at the fish as it waved back at him, its black ocellus in stark contrast to the greenish grass covering the bottom. “Do I need to get closer, Fred?” I asked, hoping he would make a presentation immediately. He stood on the bow, eyes on his prize, but failed to begin a casting motion. Predictably, the redfish disappeared from our view, swimming away to greener pastures. It was another case of redfish fever, the angling equivalent of “buck fever.” I offered no critique, as Fred is new to saltwater fly fishing, and I stand guilty of the same offense in the early days of my own fishing career.

The object of our desire

So, disappointed, I poled us further around this tiny speck of land and smallish trees and bushes. We encountered no more redfish at Redfish Island. Despite our failure to hook up, I was elated that now the wind and tide were at our backs. I easily poled us in the general direction of the ramp, some mile and a half to the south. As we departed the island environs, Fred’s sharp eyes saw a second redfish tail slowly working the benthos in about fifteen inches of water. “I see him too, Fred!” A nice redfish right there at eleven o’clock moving slowly right to left. Get it out in front of him!” I said, nearly breathless in my anticipation. It is remarkable how much I felt connected to this fishing event. It was almost like Fred had become an extension of me. I desperately wanted to see him land a redfish. This one seemed as good as any. “I got this,” Fred responded. He made a couple of nice backcasts, the wind now from his left and not a factor. He released the fly on the next forward cast, but unfortunately, the gold colored fly landed about a foot out of position. Without requiring my direction, Fred cast once more. Again the fly was not in a position to be visible to the fish. He then made one or two additional casts, but to our combined disappointment, the fish never saw the fly. It swam away, not spooked by the fly or by us. “Damn!” I thought. So close. Maybe next the fish will be The One. I turned the boat slightly to starboard to resume our course for the shoreline when I spied yet another redfish tail near the very edge of a line of short grass. Only the apex of the corner of the tail broke the surface of the water, and only intermittently. I was thrilled. “There, Fred. Right at the edge of the spartina is another redfish. Let’s get this one for sure!” I said as I spun the boat with my closet dowel push pole. “Where is he?” asked Fred, now frantically searching the water for the telltale signs of a feeding red. “Right there at ten o’clock and about 20 feet.” I responded, pointing the pole directly at the fish’s tail, barely visible now as he worked a bit deeper into the grass. “Cast now before he goes in any further and we can’t get the fly down through the grass.” I commanded. In the excitement of the moment, I neglected that fundamental rule of guiding - NEVER let a fly fisherman cast with the wind coming from his casting side. The wind had by now increased again and was blowing directly from Fred’s right side, the same side as his casting arm. He made a strong false cast and by the time he initiated the delivery cast, the crosswind had blown the fly beyond my left side. When he made his power cast, the fly slapped me smartly on my left cheek. I howled in pain reflexly as a half inch high welt instantly appeared on my cheek. Thankfully, I was wearing glasses and the hook was facing downwind at the moment of impact. There was no hook to be extracted and my Mark 1 eyeballs remained intact. Fred was incredibly apologetic. He seemed quite disturbed by this accident. I told him not to worry. This was an occupational hazard for guides. Besides, if I were left with a scar, it would make a great conversation piece. “Oh that? That’s an old guiding injury!” It would be a sort of Red Badge of Courage.  Fred continued to profusely describe the depth of his sorrow over the incident, but in the meantime, our redfish slipped into that deep, impenetrable grass. A better man might have consoled Fred by telling him that he himself had whacked a guide or two in the past, but I didn’t.

LESSON FOUR- NEVER, EVER ALLOW THE ANGLER TO CAST IN A DIRECT CROSSWIND FROM HIS CASTING SIDE!!!

We worked on down the shoreline, but by now, some two and a half hours of poling left my shoulders a little achy, so I sat in the command chair and pushed the pedals of both electric motors. Nothing happened. Despite my apprehensions  about my musculoskeletal system experiencing complete mechanical failure as well, I poled us to the beach and exited the boat in order to “de-grass” the boat. Indeed, the boat was weighed down by massive amounts of dead grass, and the prop hub was choked by green spartina wound as tight as a watch spring around it. I cleared what I could, then leaned forward to remove anything remaining under the keel. When I did, I was startled to the point of nearly losing bladder control when I heard a loud “POP!” and I felt a strong tightness around my chest. “Oh my God!” I thought, “My heart just exploded from all that poling!” At that point I realized, somewhat sheepishly, that I was still wearing my PFD. When I reached beneath the hull, it contacted the surface of the water, and the PFD’s water sensor  did its job by instantaneously fully inflating. There I stood, a big yellow ring around my upper body, laughing out loud at my idiotic stunt. Fred began to chuckle as well. “Oh well,” I commented,”At least no one had mistaken me for a giant marsh hen, and shot me!” I climbed back into the boat, this last time easily from a firm and very shallow bottom. I doffed the PFD and picked up the pole.

LESSON FIVE- ALWAYS WEAR A PFD, BUT REMEMBER TO REMOVE IT WHEN MAKING AN ELECTIVE ENTRY INTO THE WATER!

By this time, the tide had reached its zenith. Seven feet plus of saltwater obscured the redfish that were almost certainly continuing the search for food. The wind had ratcheted up a notch or two, but thank God, continued to blow from our backs. The engine nor the motor were capable of making way for us, so I continued to man the pole. This was fortuitous, as there was no possibility of my propelling the craft against the wind which was now estimated at twelve to fourteen mph. A couple of hundred yards in the distance Fred spotted Steve and a prospective client at the ramp. They peered at us through binoculars. Fred theorized that Steve had a bet that I  had fallen into the creek. We quickly approached the footbridge leading away from the launch site. The water was now quite high and I had limited maneuvering control. I had visions of cracked skulls as the boat crashed into the wooden support structures. In what could only have been Divine intervention, we managed to touch the footbridge , duck our heads, and pass underneath unscathed. We covered the remaining few yards to the take out in a few short seconds.

Fred, Steve, and me back at the launch site. Check out my vestments!

The prop was in need of de-grassing

The mass of grass being towed by the Twin Troller. Photo taken at the ramp upon our return.

An enjoyable time was had by all!

Back at the ramp, I felt victorious, though never had a hook touched a redfish mouth. We had survived in spite of my loss of dignity. We had seen and cast at a few redfish. Most important of all, Fred indicated that he had had a great time. True or not, his comment did boost my spirits. We pulled the boat from the water onto its trailer and removed grass from its keel and some of that which was buried in the prop hub. It was only later, at home and with special tools, that I was finally able to remove the last of the spartina from the prop. In a rare moment of triumph, I handed everyone a Kalik, a Bahamian beer that is my favorite. Through a stroke of lucky clairvoyance, I had stashed several in a cooler in my Tahoe. We clinked bottles, took photographs of the battle damage, and made a toast to all the redfish which had eluded us that particular day. As we finished our drinks, I queried Fred as to whether he might like to try to walk the downside of the tide out at the point, beyond Redfish Island. I told him that I could make no promises, other than I would be happy to extend his day. He immediately accepted but wished to do a freshwater wash down of his gear beforehand. I agreed and climbed into the driver’s seat. Fred opened the rear liftgate to retrieve a personal item, then quickly closed it. The push pole, which I had carefully laid diagonally across the storage area and the center console got jammed as the door closed. The fit was a tight one, and the pole was forced into the front glass. A creaking sound was followed by the appearance of a ten inch long crack in the windshield. “Perfect,” I said with a smile. “This makes the day complete.” ” You should get that replaced as soon as possible” advised Fred. ” Don’t worry, Fred. My insurance will cover it completely. I’ll have a new glass by this time tomorrow.” We pulled the boat down towards the main research facility, and sprayed down the boat and trailer. Fred washed off his rod and we headed for the flats again. Only this trip would be made by foot. No motors or grass to bother us here.

The culmination of our fishing trip. It cracked us up, literally!

We slowly made our way down a long and very bumpy dirt road to the tip of the peninsula. It was a pleasure to chat with Fred. His intelligence seems matched only by his engaging conversations. It had been a pleasure to spend a day with him, no matter the misfortunes which had befallen us. Soon, we reached the turnaround loop at the end of the road. We piled out of the truck and onto the flats, where the jumbo tide was rapidly pouring itself back into the Atlantic. In the distance, we could see Redfish Island. We trudged through the quickly falling tide, hoping to spot a tail or three. I glanced up and saw a large bald eagle wheeling overhead. That sight alone made this walk worthwhile. As we approached the terminus of a feeder creek, its finger-like projections spread across the flat, I “bumped” a redfish. I had nearly stepped on it without seeing it. The water was still a bit too high. Onward we walked, reaching a point perhaps three hundred yards from Redfish Island. Here the bottom turned soft, and every footfall sank past the midcalf. “I guess we turn back here, Fred,” I suggested.  We made a course back for the truck, still searching. I guess it really is true about fishermen being eternal optimists. We had no casting opportunities on the way back, but did bump two more fish. In short order, we were once more at the road. Fred was totally fascinated by the hundreds of thousands of fiddler crabs that scurried across the now dry grass flat. He knelt down and took a few photos.

Fiddlers on the flats- redfish crack!

As we reached the road and the truck, I turned back towards the flats and thought to myself “I’ll be baahhk.” Everything I learned that day, all those lessons, might best be summarized by the old Indian aphorism about not criticizing anyone until you have walked a mile in their shoes. I gained a whole new respect for guides. The really good ones just make it all look so damn easy. This lesson may be a metaphor for life in general. I am as guilty as anyone when it comes to easy criticism of others’ actions or opinions. Perhaps we should consider their life circumstances prior to condemning them. Trading places seems a good way to gain an appreciation of the plight of others. Remember that trading places doesn’t necessarily mean living the life of opulence as Eddie Murphy did in the movie of the same name. It might also mean taking a trip to an impoverished third world country like Haiti to see how that “other half” lives.  Like my newfound appreciation for guides and what they do, such an experience might leave the traveller with a profound sense of gratitude for all we have here.

Trading Places with Eddie Murphy and Dan Ackroyd is actually based on Mozart’s opera “The Marriage of Figaro”

Catch and Release

A High Flying Bass- The Ultimate in Freshwater Angling

Enos could catch a bass out of a bathtub. At least that’s what everyone who knew him always said. Some fishermen seem to possess a type of extra-sensory perception which allows them to locate and capture fish, even when everyone else draws a blank. Enos was fortunate enough to have either been born with this special skill, or to have developed it in his youth as he grew up chasing bass in his home waters. Enos was a Southern born, Southern bred bass fishing maniac. His job and even his pretty young wife were peripheral to this obsession. He lived in the South Carolina Lowcountry, where he spent every free minute in one of his several boats, each specially outfitted to optimize his pursuit of ‘Ole Bucketmouth. He had a twenty two foot fiberglass hulled, red metal flake finished sleek bassin’ machine propelled by a two hundred and twenty five horsepower Mercury outboard. It sported powerful remote controlled trolling motors, a pedestal seat, and a sonar that would make the Navy proud. This rig was capable of military speeds, too- nearly sixty five miles an hour, if he pushed it. That boat was just the ticket for fishing the expansive waters of the Santee-Cooper system, one of the most hallowed of bass fishing grounds. Many famous bass professionals had honed their skills on these manmade lakes before tackling the world of big money bass pro circuit fishing tournaments. And, to Enos’ delight, this bass laden gem lay a mere one hour drive from his modest dwelling.

Fishing the Swamp for Bass in a One Man Boat

Enos’ fleet also included a tiny six foot one man boat that permitted him to slip through the muddy backwaters of the area’s myriad swamplands in search of blackwater bass that lay hidden in wait among the countless stumps, roots, and downed logs dotting these remote waters. There the bass watched for prey to unsuspectingly swim or crawl by, only to be suddenly and viciously attacked by a fearsomely aggressive largemouth intent on securing its next meal. Many of these crafty predators had fallen for Enos’ skilled presentations of jigs, rubber worms, or buzz baits. These bass were masters at hiding from prey , but it was like Enos possessed “fish-ray vision.” He always seemed to find them. Enos loved all the variations bass fishing offered, but took particular joy in silently slipping through the dark swamp waters, all alone in his munchkin sized vessel, but for the barred owls, turkeys, night herons, and the occasional gator. The gators didn’t worry him. They rarely attack boats, and even if an especially grumpy one became a bit too aggressive, he could always unsnap the .44 he carried on his hip.

A Nice Bass Taken Using an Electric Pond Boat

Enos even had a small two man pond boat. It was a favorite. He operated it with foot controls, leaving his hands free to prepare baits, and his very favorite part, release the lunkers he found in smallish private ponds scattered around his home county. He had spent many afternoons prowling these kinds of waters, flinging lipless crankbaits and skitterfrogs at dark sided bass vainly attempting to camouflage themselves beneath large green lillypads. Enos just could not fathom how anything could be more addictive than the sudden, savage attack of a ten pounder as it engulfed a topwater bait being worked over the pads. It was like someone had dropped a refrigerator into the water from a helicopter. Enos never seemed to grow tired of this spectacle of Nature.

In fact, he loved it so much, that he had never done any saltwater fishing, despite living less than ten miles from the ocean. “How can it be any better than feeling the fury of nine angry pounds of a hooked bass wildly throwing its body four feet into the early morning sunshine?” he wondered. As an added benefit, largemouth fishing precluded all the maintenance required of equipment used in the salt. He had listened and learned as his buddies complained about how quickly their saltwater gear corroded and failed despite meticulous care, and how expensive it was to replace after only a few years of service. “No,” Enos reasoned, “I’ll stick to the fresh. It’s what I know anyway.”

Enos’ life was about to change. After a night of downing a considerable number of Budweisers with some of his fishing friends, he decided he might give it a try after all.  His buddy Craig was fond of telling new acquaintances that he “went both ways”.  After snickering at the typically shocked expressions caused by this statement, he explained that he fished both fresh AND saltwater. He typically then broke into hysterical laughter that lasted some three to four minutes.  Fortunately, Craig’s fishing skills far surpassed his comedic ones. He had been fishing the salt for quite a few years and had enjoyed success in his efforts to catch the commonly encountered saltwater species such as redfish and trout. Not rainbow trout, but the seatrout, an aggressive striker that is much revered for its table appeal. After his rapturous descriptions of landing thirty inch redfish on light tackle in very shallow water, Enos acquiesced and agreed to accompany Craig the following Saturday on a quest for monster reds in the brackish waters of the North Santee River. Craig had previously dialed in a few spots which on specific tide phases, had proven to consistently hold some larger breeder size reds. He was aware of the laws protecting the fish that are of reproductive size, and had no intention of retaining any of these bruisers. He merely wanted to see his friend tussle with a large saltwater fish, just to gauge his reaction, and just maybe, to create a convert to the saltwater cause. “Every new member of the CCA helps,” he thought as the two fishermen decided on a time and place of meeting.

The Pole Yard Landing on the North Santee

As agreed, Craig and Enos met at a landing known locally as the “Pole Yard.” The landing is so named because in a previous life, it had served as a marshalling area for the thousands of long slender logs harvested from the abundant upstream forests and floated down to this spot. Here they were removed from the water with massive cranes, loaded onto log trucks, and transported to a nearby creosote plant, where they were treated and turned into utility poles. After the supply of trees had faded away, the state turned the yard into a handy landing for area boaters. Here sportsmen had access to the Santee Rivers, and some ten miles or so downstream, the open Atlantic. The brackish waters of the Santee system held good numbers of redfish, including large bulls at certain times of the year. Those fish were today’s target.

Craig expertly backed his Chevy Silverado down the dual lane ramp and let his blue and white bay boat slip gently into the dark waters of the Santee. Enos, who had ridden in the boat as it backed down the ramp, easily fired up the Honda four stroke, loosened the trailer strap, and guided the boat to the dock as Craig parked the pickup. Craig soon jumped aboard, assumed command of the helm, and pointed the boat east towards the sea. After about a twenty minute run, Craig slowed the boat, carefully studying the depth finder/GPS device mounted on the helm station. Soon, he located the twenty five foot deep hole in the Santee’s bottom that had yielded so many big reds in the past. His fervent hope today was that Enos would hook up on a feisty large red and join the ranks of fishermen who had become addicted to the charms of the salt.

Enos, under the watchful eye of his buddy, began preparing his rig. His concept of “heavy bass rigging” was about to change radically this morning. His rod was a nine foot heavy action Shimano rod featuring a fifty pound class baitcasting reel . The reel was oufitted with sixty pound braided line that terminated in a heavy duty saltwater swivel. A two ounce egg sinker had been placed between the reel and the swivel to act as a stop for the weight. It looked like something you might use offshore at the Georgetown Hole to catch marlin. Enos next tied on three feet of eighty pound fluorocarbon leader secured with a four turn clinch knot. To the business end of the leader he added a 5-0 Gamakatsu circle hook which had been chemically sharpened. “I remember when all my tackle was American made- Eagle Claw and Shakespeare.” Enos thought as he made the connections. “It is hard to argue with the quality of the imported stuff though,” he admitted to himself. Craig interrupted his thoughts by instructing Enos to run the hook through the hunk of mullet he handed him. ” It looks like a giant Carolina rig,” Enos remarked, referring to the rigging style commonly used in bass fishing. “That is exactly what it is,” replied Craig. ” Drop it over the side, and I’ll set the anchor when we drift a few yards off the hole.” After making the anchor fast to the muddy river bottom, Craig began to set up a rig for himself, though his primary interest was in seeing his friend’s reaction to the pull of a monster redfish. Craig soon completed his own rig, but cast it across the river and away from the hole where Enos’ bait lay, exuding the scent of fresh mullet into the deep hole to draw in any big reds that might be ready for an easy meal. Craig really did want to see his friend latch onto a truly large fish, though his intentions were not altogether altruistic. Craig had been looking for someone with whom he could fish the salt. That way, he could share the ever increasing gas costs for the drive and the fuel hungry motor hanging off the transom of his boat. Having someone to talk to while waiting on the big bite was also a definite plus.

Enos secured his rod in the port transom rod holder and sat back in his seat. Craig’s rod occupied the forward holder as they began the waiting process. Enos was accustomed to a more active fishing style, a constant barrage of casts made to likely bass holding spots. Nonetheless, he took it all in stride, making small talk with Craig as they waited for some action. The sun shone brightly overhead, occasionally obscured by passing clouds. A freshening breeze made for a pleasant September afternoon. Both men were college football fans, though neither’s educational path went further than high school. Enos was a hard core Clemson fan, while Craig supported the University of South Carolina’s program. “Enos, I know it’s early in the season, but Carolina’s running back and that new quarterback are going to take the Tigers down this year,” Craig said. ” We have a gameplan for ‘em,” Enos said, his statement stopped short by a sudden bend in his rod.  The Shimano pulsed a bit, then laid hard over as something, something powerful, sped downriver with the mullet piece. The reel was now turning like a spinning top and line played out at an alarming rate. “Looks like you got a nibble there, Enos!” said Craig excitedly. “How much line is on this reel anyway?” asked an anxious Enos. “Oh, you’ve got plenty,” was the response. Craig had spooled nearly 400 yards of the braid on the reel, an easy feat as the line was of exceptionally small diameter for its breaking strength.  “And you can put plenty of heat on him since you have sixty pound leader material” he added. “I just hope your knots are good.”

The line cut through the dark water of the river as the unknown fish set sail for the Atlantic. Enos had never imagined anything like this in his wildest dreams. Not even the largest bass of his life, a hulking fourteen pounder, could begin to match the velocity and raw power of this saltwater creature. “That must be a huge redfish!” exclaimed Craig. “I bet it is at least forty pounds, maybe more!” Enos carefully tightened the drag star on the reel, comforted by the fact that he had heavy line and leader. “ I got to slow this guy down some before he does take all my line,” said Enos, elated to feel the energy being transferred by the great fish through the line and into his hands and forearms. Then he felt the line slacken just a little. Just then, the water about a hundred feet from the boat exploded into the azure afternoon sky. “What the hell???” Enos’ words hung suspended in the air like the massive silver beast before them. “It’s a TARPON!!!!!” shouted Craig. “A nice one, too.” Enos had never seen a tarpon and he was incredulous at the sheer size and power of this large fish. The tarpon leaped ten feet into the air, twisting its body into a pretzel like shape, desperate to dislodge the hook from its mouth. It crashed back into the river with a massive splash that threw water twenty five feet in every direction. “Keep the heat on him, Enos,” advised Craig. “That’s an unbelievable fish. We have to land him!” Though Enos had never caught a saltwater fish in his life, he knew how to fish. As the tarpon altered course, Enos expertly used the rod to turn his head the opposite direction. Despite an air temperature that was a comfortable seventy eight degrees, rivulets of sweat began to flow down Enos’ face. His forearm muscles began to ache and his throat was suddenly dry. Craig handed him a bottle of water, and Enos quickly downed it, while simultaneously maintaining the pressure. Soon, the mighty tarpon made another jump, this time a bit further away. “Drop the rod tip, Enos. You have to bow to the king when he jumps!” said Craig. “The king?” a puzzled Enos asked. “The Silver King!” replied Craig.

A Huge Saltwater Bass!

Enos did a remarkable job handling this fish. He had expert advise from Craig, but he also possessed solid fishing instincts. The tarpon dove now, but was limited by the depth of the river. It could run, but it could not submarine like pelagic fish typically do. After a forty minute battle, the tarpon lay alongside the boat, defeated and submissive, but still breathing.  Enos, though triumphant, was ecstatic simply to be breathing as well. Never had he considered fishing a physically demanding sport, but he realized that he had now crossed the threshold into a whole new world. “Wow! What do you think he weighs?” inquired Enos. “I would guess SHE goes a buck and a quarter,” was Craig’s response. Craig explained to his friend that most of the larger tarpon were females. “I need to take a closer look at this girl,” said Enos. He slowly took it all in, the humongous chrome silver scales, the massive gill plates, and of course, that huge mouth. “She has a giant bucket mouth, just like a bass!” exclaimed Enos. “Very similar,” agreed Craig. “And she jumps like a bass. In fact, she is the saltwater version of a largemouth bass!” said Enos. “I think I have died and gone to fisherman’s heaven!” he added, a large smile across his face. “A hundred and twenty five pound bass! Can you imagine?” he wistfully said.

“Craig, help me load her into the boat. This big ‘ole girl is going home with me. She is going to look mighty fine mounted on the wall in my living room.” “I hate to tell you this Enos, but it is illegal to take a tarpon. But you can always have a replica mount made. People do it all the time.  Modern graphite replicas look nearly identical to the real thing, but last forever, unlike old fashioned skin mounts. I’ll just take a few pictures of her, and we can release her to be on her way”. Craig rummaged around the boat for his digital camera to record the moment and give the taxidermist a model for his replica. ” Oh crap!” exclaimed Craig. I can’t find my camera. I must have left it in the truck.” he admitted dejectedly. “I do have a tape. We can get the length and girth. That’s all we really need anyway,” said Craig.

After carefully obtaining the tarpon’s vital statistics, Enos carefully removed the hook. He then revived the great fish by having Craig move the boat slowly forward using the trolling motor to flow water and oxygen over her gills. Enos lovingly admired her huge dark eyes, her bright red gills, the shiny scales covering her massive body, and that impossibly large mouth. Enos thought for a second and said “Craig, her mouth is so damn big, I could do that lion tamer trick and stick my whole head in it!”  Craig laughed and said “Let’s let her go now. She seems to be wiggling pretty good now.”

Enos slowly released his grip on the tarpon’s upper lip. He felt sadness creep over his body as he reluctantly let the magnificent creature go. He lovingly stroked his hand along her silvery body as she sank away from the boat. Enos stared at the water, hoping to see her perhaps one more time. But she remained cloaked in the dark waters of the river.  “Man, I wish I could have kept that fish.” said Enos. “I would love to have been able to show her off to my buddies. A fake fish on my wall just isn’t the same,” he said sadly. ” I don’t even have a photograph.” ”Yes, but think of it this way. How many people have been blessed enough to catch a tarpon? You will always have the memory of feeling the strength and power of this fish. You will always have in your mind the sight of it jumping, like Michael Jordan taking the ball to the basket for one of his trademark dunks. And I know you’ll never forget that huge bucketmouth, just like a giant bass.”

At that moment, something caught Enos’ eye. It was a flash of polished silver somewhere off his left side. He looked downriver a bit, and saw the tarpon come to the surface, the bright sunshine glinting off her mirror like body. She turned away, and gave Enos a farewell wave of her broad tail as she sank back into the depths, never to be seen again by human eyes. The big fish instinctively began her journey to vast limitless expanse of the open ocean a short distance downstream where she would forever be free to roam the currents wherever she wished. Enos returned her farewell, trying to be content with his memories.

As Craig guided the boat upstream towards the Pole Yard, Enos felt a mix of emotions. He felt a deep sense of frustration and sadness that he was coming home empty handed, despite landing a fish of truly monstrous proportions. He had no fish to show off to his buddies down at the tackle shop, not even a photograph. “You’ll back me up on this, won’t you, Craig?” he asked his friend. “Of course I will,” Craig responded. Enos reflected on the bite, the speed and power of the mighty fish, and that awesome leap high into the morning sunlight. “Sometimes, we just have to be happy with the memories,” Enos concluded. Around the bend, the Pole Yard came into view.    ”Hey, Craig. You workin” next Saturday?”

“Anyone who has lost something they thought was theirs forever finally comes to realise that nothing really belongs to them.”
―    Paulo Coelho

In many ways, fishing seems a metaphor for real life. In life, as in fishing, sometimes we are fortunate enough to find something rare and valuable. For the blessed among us, that thing is a person with whom we are able to deeply connect. We may have the opportunity to love them, spend our time with them, and to come to appreciate their strengths and weaknesses. But there may  also come a time when that which is most precious to us is taken away. The pain of our loss can be unbearable. With time,however, we may come to understand that they were never really ours to possess  in the first place. We learn to celebrate the time we did have together, to feel again the depths of the love we shared, and most of all, to remember what it felt like laugh, love, and simply be with them. Life has a way of slowly filling in the holes in our hearts and teaching us that there really are other fish to be caught. Though that first glorious catch will forever remain close to our hearts and its story indelibly written there, it is comforting to realize that there may be even bigger and more wonderful ones still swimming out there somewhere.

The Old Man and the Knee

Essentail Fishing Equipment

 My initial attraction to the world of fly fishing may have been ,at least in part, stimulated by the shiny rows of polished fly bins, the beauty of fishing art pieces tastefully displayed around the fly shop, and the jewel-like intricacies of the CAD/CAM produced billet aluminum fly reels I encountered at a well known Montana store. Adding to my fascination was the physical challenge presented to me when I stepped out back with the owner, a world renown fly fisherman. He laid out a paper plate some forty feet away and repeatedly gently laid the piece of brightly colored yarn in the bull’s eye of the plate. When first he offered the rod to me, I barely escaped death by suffocation as I repeatedly wrapped the fly line around my neck. The gauntlet had now been cast, and I was not about to back down. At the time, we were vacationing in the Paradise Valley area, and I lucked into a guided trip on Depuy’s spring creek the next day. The beauty of the water and that first trout I somehow managed to catch insured that I would remain a fly fishing addict for the remainder of my days.

At $9700, the machined titanium Zane reel by Hardy may be the most expensive fly reel available.

Over the intervening years, I have tried not to be an equipment snob, at least outwardly. Hidden somewhere in my fly fishing heart lies a modicum of lust for the shiny, expensive, famous maker gear. I suppose that deep down in the reaches of my psyche, my modest upbringing has left me feeling second best at most of life’s endeavors.  Some obscure recess of my inner self seems to attempt to rationalize this desire as a method of, in some way, perhaps equalizing that perceived deficit. My subconscious rationalizes that although I may not be the best,  perhaps my equipment may cause observers to conclude that since I am using elite equipment,I must be an elite fisherman.  Most of the time, my higher powers of reasoning prevent purchases of outrageously expensive gear, but somewhere in a darker corner of my unconscious mind incapable of rational thought, I still want that $800 rod and that $1500 reel. Rarely would it be true that there is a direct relationship between equipment cost and number of fish caught. Most modern fly fishing gear, especially rods, can perform significantly better than nearly all users. I must keep reminding myself of that fact.

I have never considered my body to be another piece of fishing equipment.  I have always assumed that it will always be there, working seamlessly and dependably in the background, enabling me to put to practical use my rod, reel, fly line, and flies. And for some forty years, it did just that, barely missing a beat in fishing or any of my athletic pursuits. However, it is axiomatic that the only constant in life is change, and over the past years, my body has begun a slow steady decline in its reliability. As is true for all mechanical devices, my musculoskeletal system is wearing out. Biomechanical engineers tell us that the average person makes approximately one million step cycles per year. So, a sixty year old has made some sixty million walking cycles. For some of us, those numbers are greatly underestimated. Although an accurate number is impossible to determine, I suspect that in my own case, it would be more accurate to revise that figure upwards to perhaps ninety million. Imagine any mechanical device asked to perform that number of cycles without failure! Even our incredibly miraculous bodies will begin to fail under such demands. My suspicion is that our bodies may have been designed to last some forty years. Man’s ingenuity through the application of science has greatly extended our life expectancy. Unfortunately, the basic skeletal framework upon which our bodies are built is frequently unable to keep up.  In particular, the phenomenally constructed bearing surfaces in our joints, despite their fascinatingly complex design features, often fail over time. In the knee joints this failure, which we call arthritis, leaves us to walk on rough, sandpaper like surfaces, instead of the amazingly smooth, resilient surfaces with which we were born. In contradistinction to the many advances in medical science over the past decades, we are no closer to understanding how to reverse these changes than was the English physician William Hunter, who in 1743 noted that “From Hippocrates to the present age it is universally allowed that ulcerated cartilage is a troublesome thing and that once destroyed it is not repaired.” Unfortunately, little has changed. The best modern medicine can do for sufferers of arthritis is to replace that tissue which cannot be repaired with something man made. This technology lags several orders of magnitude behind natural tissue, but it is currently state of the art.  This admittedly crude treatment can nonetheless be miraculous for those whose quality of life has been stolen by this cruel disease.

Basic knee anatomy illustrating the bearing surfaces, or articular cartilage. This how w are able to walk without pain or friction.

The pain developed slowly at first. I noted that I could no longer run, or play racquetball, or even take long walks.  In addition to simply deleting those and similar activities from my life, I underwent a number of treatments, including multiple arthoscopic surgeries on my knees and a number of injections in both knees, as well as oral medications. But, true to Hunter’s observation, the arthritis inexorably progressed despite the temporary relief afforded by these measures. In the ultimate irony, I was an orthopedic surgeon who specialized in knee surgery with severe, debilitating arthritis in my own knees. At least I was able to fully empathize with my patients.  Eventually, I was left unable to perform my duties. The weight bearing activities of a surgeon, including prolonged standing during surgical procedures, making hospital rounds, and seeing patients in the office, became impossible. Eventually, I was forced to abandon the surgery I love so much and for which I trained half of my life. Replacement of both of my knees followed.

Of course, my fly fishing suffered as well. I found it extremely difficult to wade the bonefish flats I so cherish. My trips to these slices of paradise soon became possible only through a combination of short term steroids and pain medications. Obviously, I could not take these drugs and perform surgery, but I did use them intermittently on a short term basis as a means to allow me do some fishing. I also limited wading, instructing my guides to allow me to fish from the boat exclusively. I actually enjoy wading over white sand bottoms, visually locating my targets, and casting to them and was somewhat distressed by these restrictions. Now, no matter how fancy and trendy my equipment, I was severely limited in my fishing. As it turns out, the most critical pieces of gear I possessed were my knees.

The similarities between  a high quality fly reel and a human knee are remarkable. The opposing surfaces of a well made reel’s drag must be exquisitely smooth, and free of even the smallest irregularities that would allow them to rub and catch against one another. Such irregular movements produce a jerky action which allows a fish to easily break the tippet and escape. The bearing surfaces present in a human knee are so well designed and constructed as to make even the very finest reels appear to be two pieces of forty grit sandpaper grinding together. Scientists have determined that the coefficient of drag of the surfaces of a human knee is less than that of two flat surfaces of perfectly smooth ice skating across one another. No manmade device can even begin approach its efficiency. For most people, these marvels of biological engineering continue to provide uninterrupted service for millions upon millions of use cycles. Just how that is made possible is beyond the scope of the present discussion, but is one of nature’s most amazing feats. Why some joints wear out prematurely is not completely understood, but it does provide knee surgeons an opportunity to restore quality of life to unfortunate patients whose achy knees have limited their lifestyles. Just as an old, worn out reel whose drag surfaces are worn away and are no longer smooth must be replaced in order to continue catching fish, so did my knees.

The artificial replacement for the destroyed articular surface of the end of the thigh bone, ready to be impacted into position.

Santiago- a real fisherman with the heart of a lion!

Ernest Hemingway’s classic novel, The Old Man and the Sea, tells a tale of courage in the face of great adversity and illustrates how triumph can emerge from apparent defeat. As I recently read once more this tale set in the seas off Cuba, I became transfixed by its power. Like much of great literature, the reader is able to draw many parallels from the narrative to his or her own life circumstances. Right away, I was struck by the fact that the protagonist’s name was Santiago. As I investigated the etymology of this common Spanish name, I was surprised to learn that most scholars consider its English equivalent to be James, my own moniker. I was easily able to relate my life to that of Santiago. Like him, I was born into a less privileged family. And like Santiago, I found contentment in my circumstances.  As I later heard it expressed so succinctly, we were poor, we just didn’t know it. So very true. Santiago accepted his lot in life and seemed to go about his business without remorse or anger. He lived not for material possessions, but to catch the largest marlin in Havana’s history. Experiences, not objects, made his life worthwhile. Maybe there is a lesson in there somewhere for me. Santiago had no fancy reel or rod. In fact, his only fishing tools were his handline and hook, his body, and his boundless mental toughness. Nonetheless, he was able to somehow bring to hand a great fish of some 1500 pounds. It may be difficult to decide which better served Santiago- his dogged determination, or his wiry, heavy labor-hardened body. Clearly, his extremely primitive fishing equipment played no significant role in his victory over the massive fish.

Attitude trumps eleborate equipment!

Santiago held onto the mighty marlin for three days and nights. His line hand was cut and bleeding. The old man felt not pain, but rather a sense of betrayal by his own body, as his hand ached and cramped. He thought not that he needed better gear, but that his hand was “unworthy”. He did not want the fish to jump, lest it see how Santiago’s hand was failing him, a source of great embarrassment to the old man.  This is how a real fisherman thinks.  He pitted his “will and intelligence” against the overwhelming strength of the big fish. No $1500 reel needed. In fact, no reel at all.

Would that I could be half the man Santiago was. When my knees grew to be “unworthy” and betrayed me, I let go of the line, as it were. Rather than ignoring the pain and forcing myself to bend the knees to my will, I collapsed under the pressure, instead electing to have surgery. I doubt Santiago would have traded his cramped, bleeding hand for a Penn International no matter how severe the pain. Yet I exchanged my dilapidated old knees for new ones crafted from stainless steel and molybdenum.  Doubtless, this will renew my fishing career. But what does it say about my self discipline? Perhaps I am not worthy.

In the end, the old man lost his prize to hungry sharks. The huge marlin was some eighteen feet in length, making it larger than his modest skiff, and the biggest fish ever caught in Cuba. Now, he had no meat to sell at market in Havana, no awe inspiring trophy to show the people at the docks upon his return. He had something more important. He had the satisfaction of knowing that he had taken on the largest fish anyone had ever seen, and beaten it using his bare hands and his iron will.

I do know a few extremely skilled fly fishermen who are able to cast, at least to some extent, using only their hands only, sans a rod. I am unaware of any, however, who can walk without knees. But I am no Santiago.  I need at least a few basic tools in order to fish. My knees, as I have come to discover, are among the most basic and essential of such implements.  I can catch a lifetime of fish using the basic rods and reels I now own. With a reasonable amount of care, this equipment should serve me well for the remainder of my life. And so should my new knees.

Under the Oaks with Lefty Kreh

It is not often that I have the opportunity to meet and spend a few moments with someone I consider a true hero and legend. Bernard “Lefty” Kreh certainly meets those criteria.  The good folks at Pawley’s Outdoors sponsored a visit this weekend past by Lefty to their picturesque store in Pawley’s Island, South Carolina. The store’s grounds are populated by a number of ancient live oak trees whose leaf covered limbs  provided a natural shady auditorium for attendees. Most of us set up folding chairs beneath the mighty limbs and branches of these massive shade trees as we were regaled by Lefty and his unique presentation and teaching style.

Beneath the spreading live oak tree, the village tiers sit

Born to a less privileged Maryland family in the mid 1920′s, Lefty went on to lead a life filled with adventure, danger, innovation, adoration by his many fans, and travel to nearly every place on the planet where a fish might swim. Here is a man whose exploits range from helping support his struggling family by catching catfish on a string tied to a streamside bush, to fishing with the likes of Fidel Castro and Ernest Hemingway. He has fished with presidents, celebrities, and ordinary people who are afflicted with the fly fishing disease so many of us share. It is contagious and has no known antidote.

Author’s original redfish pattern. NON- Lefty approved!

Speaking of antidotes, many people may not realize that after Lefty returned from his tour of duty fighting in the Battle of the Bulge in World War II, he was assigned to a germ warfare unit testing various lethal biological agents to be used against the enemy. Somehow, Lefty and another soldier were exposed to a new strain of anthrax being developed and tested. Lefty survived, unlike his less fortunate companion, who succumbed to the deadly disease. The strain was designated “BVK-1″ in Lefty’s honor. Lefty was a hero in both the Battle of the Bulge, and the Battle of the Bacteria!  Recently, Lefty has lent both his name and his credibility to a new line of less expensive, yet highly capable fly rods developed by a Texas company called Temple Fork Outfitters. Their premier line of rods is called the “BVK” line, in honor of Lefty. Thus, Lefty may be the only person in history to have both a fly rod and a deadly bacteria named for him.

After his military service, Lefty went on to become the outdoors editor for the Baltimore Sun. Writing came easily to him and he has authored a number of fly fishing oriented books sharing his accumulated wisdom gathered over some sixty odd years of fly fishing, as well as countless magazine articles. He has had starring roles in television productions too numerous to count. Most recently he has appeared in “Buccaneers and Bones” with other luminaries such as Tom Brokaw, Michael Keaton, Yvon Chiunard, Tom McGuane, and others. Lefty has become an icon of fly fishing, and may be single handedly responsible for its soaring popularity over recent years. He makes multiple personal appearances at fly fishing shows around the country and takes great delight in demonstrating in practical terms the efficiency of his casting style. He not only possesses the ability to impart his skills to anyone willing to learn, but is able to entertain the onlookers with his pithy comments. I recall vividly watching him instruct one of my close friends, a shoulder surgeon of some repute. Lefty observed Jay’s casting stroke and immediately warned him that unless his technique were to be altered, Jay would tear his rotator cuff! We all enjoyed a deep laugh from that comment.

Lefty in full-on teaching mode!

Lefty, to me at least, is what Babe Ruth was to baseball, a true legend who towers above everyone else in the field. To be able to sit down with Lefty for a few minutes and explore the depth of his knowledge and experience is a special treat. Lefty never seems to grow tired of his adoring public, and is happy to stay until the last book or hat is signed, and the last question answered. Here is a link to a YouTube video of part of Lefty’s casting lesson:

http://youtu.be/rAoxCq_V4XI

Ever patient with his multitude of fans

At 87 years of age, I am astounded at the pace he is able to maintain. When I look into his eyes, I can still see the passion for fly fishing burning there. I can only hope that I survive to his age, and if I do, that I might be able to hold onto even one tenth of Lefty’s never ending love for the sport. I asked how he is able to continue to do it all. He said that he doesn’t drink more than an occasional glass of wine and that he refuses to eat any plate of food that has more than four colors on it. That is new advice to me, but perhaps he is onto something. The death of Evelyn, his beloved wife and his “best friend” of more than sixty years slowed his travels for a while, but he has returned to what he loves most now. I, as well as the rest of the fly fishing world, am grateful to have him back.

Seventy years of fly fishing experience at my disposal- learning from the Master

As I grow older myself, and my own physical infirmities increasingly limit my fly fishing adventures, I find myself pondering what experiences remain that I should make certain to check off my life list before I put away my fly rod for the final time. As I talked with Lefty, I posed that question to him, a man who has literally done it all. He suggested that I go somewhere where the environment is as fascinating as the fishing. He suggested either the Amazon for the colorful peacock bass, or the far northern reaches of the Canadian wilderness for the aggressive giant northern pike that inhabit the remote, wild rivers of that area. He spoke of the wildlife such as bears, wolves, and eagles, as well as the topography and sheer rugged beauty of the landscapes. Having been fortunate enough to fish the remote rain forests of Brazil twice, I told him that I would look into making a journey to the North Seal River my next great wilderness adventure.

My friend Paul and I next queried Lefty about a lodge in the Ascension Bay area of Mexico famed for its large population of permit. Permit, as is well known by all saltwater fly fishermen, are perhaps the most elusive and frustrating of all flats species. Nearly twenty years of serious tropical flats fishing has yielded me only two permit, and I consider myself more than lucky at that. As fate would have it, Lefty had visited the very same lodge only three weeks prior to our meeting with him. His praise for the lodge and its fishing was unusually effusive. He told us that an average day on these flats produced sightings of 12-15 permit. He also told us about the lodge’s unusual practice of fitting two guides per boat. One man does the poling, while the other stands at the angler’s side, helping him or her spot the fish and directing not only the casting, but aiding the angler in presenting the fly in a such a way as to maximize its effectiveness on these fickle, hard to please fish.  We have already booked a trip.

Holding Court

Too soon the day was over. Sheila and I departed for home, while Lefty prepared to continue his rock star tour, fans in the next town already excited to see him spread the gospel of fly fishing and dispense his wisdom to yet another eager eared crowd.

Meanwhile, as I rode home, I felt that just a little bit of Lefty was coming home with me, tucked somewhere in the fly fishing files of my cerebral cortex, but another piece hidden deep in my fisherman’s heart.

Trout Prefer Boxers

A few days ago, I retraced my footsteps to what has become one of my favorite fishing destinations- Brevard, North Carolina. This quaint college town lying in the western part of the state now holds a certain power over me. Often, I find as I am driving my Tahoe to the local Food Lion, the panel mounted GPS unit mysteriously comes to life, showing Davidson River Outfitters as its destination. I am forced to wrestle with the steering wheel to enter the grocery store parking lot and acquire the bread, milk, or sundries which I was commissioned to retrieve for my wife. Lately, the battles have intensified. I fear that soon I may lose all control and abandon myself completely to the rainbows and browns swimming so gracefully and effortlessly in the cold waters of the Davidson and French Broad Rivers.

Upon arrival, I was met by my old friend Michael. After hearing about his 12 hour drive from the Philadelphia area, I was once more reminded of how blessed I am to have been born and raised in the South Carolina Lowcountry. From my present environs, Brevard lies a short drive of some four and a half hours. This brief driving time is easily filled by listening to a thought provoking audiobook, such as Michael Crichton’s “Micro”.  That fascinating tale,however implausible, about nature and man’s well-meaning efforts to preserve it made quick work of the windshield time.

After a pleasant dinner at a Main Street Italian trattoria enjoyed alfresco, we retired to our rooms at the local inn, and prepared for a day on the water. Michael, as it turns out, is a man whose intellect is exceeded only by his all-encompassing sense of curiosity about the world around him. He has taken to the fly rod like, well, a fish to water. He has taught himself to construct beautiful fly rods, to tie fish catching flies, and to spey cast. That technique, used mainly by steelhead anglers on very large western rivers,involves the use of two handed rods measuring some fifteen feet in length.  Wielded by highly skilled anglers, its use is reminiscent of a Samuria warrior at work with his sword, or a Jedi using his light saber. It is a thing of beauty and grace, and not easily mastered. Its use was pioneered on the River Spey, in Scotland. It should therefore have not surprised me when Michael came over to my room festooned with a bagpipe and played “Amazing Grace” for me. It seems obvious that interest in one Scottish art form might easily lead to interest in another, each a challenging skill set. Multi-talented indeed. That rendition also served to remind me of my mortality once more, as long I have desired that greatest of all songs ever written be played on the pipes at a memorial service at my passing.

The following morning, we met Bill, the very same guide with whom I had fished on my previous trip, at Davidson River Outfitters, a mere block from our hotel. We suited up there, with considerably less effort on my part than before, then loaded ourselves, rods, and packs into Bill’s SUV for the trip to the morning’s fishing spot. Instead of fishing the entire day on the Davidson itself, Bill put us on a private stretch of the French Broad River west of Brevard. It was a short pleasant trip, taken up mostly by hearing about Bill’ s experiences in the world of competitive fly fishing, a somewhat oxymoronic concept to me. As we made our way west and uphill, I wondered how my wife might receive the news that I was headed this day to a French Broad. It might be difficult to explain that the moniker is merely the given name of a local river. To be exact, we fished the West Fork of that river. It lay behind locked gates, in a remote and quiet valley, now verdant from the rain and abundant sunshine of early spring. The air was warm and comfortable, in direct contradistinction to my January visit. A cloudless sky was complimented by absent winds. Conditions were ideal. We assembled rods, strapped on vests and packs, and plodded towards the sound of rushing waters.

The Lovely French Broad River Near Brevard

Once at the water’s edge, Bill sent me to the upstream end of our little beat, and Michael to downriver area. His quickly proved to be holding fish. He soon brought several to his net, while I merely watched my fly drift dragless, but also fishless, through riffles and pocket water. After a few minutes, Bill motioned for me to join him, and he led me further down the stream to a different area. Here I remained for the duration of the morning. He rigged a dry fly/dropper rig for me, using 7X tippet, a superfine monofilament with maybe a two pound breaking strength, but invisible to even these sharp eyed fish. He bade me cast this contraption upstream of a small bush, allowing it to drift through the shadow of a leaning tree on the opposite bank. “You should get a hit just about… NOW!” he said, as he watched the dry fly float into the shadow. As if on cue, my dry fly suddenly plunged deep into the cold water, a nice fifteen inch rainbow locked fast to the incredibly small nymph Bill had tied some 14 inches below the dry fly. After a satisfying fight, Bill netted the fish and released it unharmed into the river.

Leaving me to my own devices, Bill returned to assist Michael, and I continued to drift that rig through that shadow. I was rewarded by strike upon strike. I caught quite a few trout, both rainbow and brown, until my nymph tangled in an underwater obstacle and I lost it. “Not a problem,” I surmised, as I regarded my fly box, stuffed with tiny nymph patterns. I opened the box, now realizing that I had no idea what particular pattern Bill had affixed to my tippet, nor what size, other than “really small.”  I selected a likely looking fly, and carefully replaced the 7X tippet tied to the larger dry fly. “I bet it won’t matter that much if I have the very exact pattern since these fish are striking almost every drift I have been making.” WRONG!  I got not another bite.

The fish soon began to rise, taking the caddis flies which had just hatched in massive numbers and were flying low through the soft orange colored light diffusing through the rhododendrons that lined the West Fork’s banks. When one fell onto the water, trapped in its surface tension, a trout would rise and viciously devour it. It reminded me of Crichton’s novel about the ferocity of Nature, but that’s another story. I picked out a tan elk hair caddis fly that I thought might be close in size to what I saw flying and dying before me. This time I abandoned the nymph entirely and relied on my dry fly selection. I was elated to see a few of the trout savagely attacking my fly. I landed a few, but missed getting the hook properly set in many more. Quite satisfying nonetheless.

Soon, Bill reappeared, and he re-rigged my line. I soon was fast to a very large trout. Even the eqaniminous Bill showed excitement. He carefully surveyed the fish attached to my line and estimated it at well over twenty inches- a trophy trout on any stream. I fought the fish carefully, ever mindful of the slender thread of monofilament between me and my prize. I felt confident of victory, but suddenly, inexplicably, the trout was free. No snapped line, no bent hook, no slack allowed in the line. It was just fishing, part of what keeps the entire enterprise interesting. We exchanged expressions of sorrow, then headed back to the truck, where we met Michael and headed to the Davidson for the afternoon. Bill’s absence during my fishing had made crystal clear his value.

We soon stood at waters edge on the private stretch of the Davidson, not far from the flyshop itself. Micheal was assigned now the upstream beat while I took the one a bit downstream.  Most of our day was now spent, but we had time to make numbers of casts, once more utilizing the combination of a dry fly and a nymph below it. There were no discernible insect hatches occurring here, so we relied on the wet flies to do our work. And work they did. Michael and I each were treated to seeing numerous trout leap into the afternoon sky, twisting their bodies into pretzel shapes in an effort to relieve themselves of the small hooks on the size twenty flies. We brought most of them to hand, snapped a few photos, and carefully released them to their underwater homes tired, but unharmed. It was as though we had merely given the fish a workout, thereby saving them a trip to the gym that day. The fish were not the only ones tired by the day’s fishing. Michael and I withdrew from the river sore and fatigued from a day of wading the swift currents and repeated casts, in addition to wrestling the many trout we fought to our nets.

We tallied fifty trout this day. I landed thirty trout myself and Michael accounted for the remainder. This “score” represents a personal best for me, though I had long since ceased counting. So numerous were these trout today, however, that I had decided early to enumerate them, just for curiosity’s sake. Included in these numbers were two nineteen inch rainbows I was fortunate enough to catch, as well as a handsome  twenty inch specimen Michael expertly brought to his net. Even more impressive than these numbers was the opportunity to spend time with a friend in an activity precious to us both. Neither of us will soon forget this trip.

Words have long been a source of fascination for me. So, my curiosity about the name of this town led me to do some simple research on the internet. Brevard is derived from the Old French word “bref”, which means brief. I found this fascinating. Brevard lies only a brief drive from my house, and my time fishing its trout rich waters always seems exceedingly brief. So, the name seems quite appropriate. Another translation of “bref” is “small.” The trout here absolutely do not fit that translation, in either size or numbers. The trout are abundant and quite large, much to the fisherman’s delight. Neither is the beauty of Brevard and the surrounding area small. By contrast, the area is quite lovely and a welcome change of pace for us flatlanders.

As I watched my dry flies float invitingly along the water’s surface that day, a question arose in my mind as I reflected on the derivation of town’s name.  Suddenly and unexpectedly, I wondered if trout prefer boxers or briefs? Or perhaps “brefs”?? Science has shown us that in humans there is a difference in sperm production between men who wear boxers and those who wear briefs. Those structures which produce sperm require a slightly lower temperature than body temperature for maximal efficiency.  That is why the testes are located outside the body. Scientific evidence has demonstrated that men who wear boxers are more fertile than their brief wearing counterparts, as these garments cause increased warmth in the testes. Indeed, couples who face fertility issues are often advised to change the male’s clothing habits to maximize chances of fertilization. What does this all have to with trout? Nothing I suppose. But after experiencing the phenomenal numbers of trout in the French Broad and the Davidson Rivers, I would bet trout in the Brevard area choose boxers over briefs, despite the appellation of their hometown.