I had attached the boat, loaded the rods and the remainder of my gear the previous evening, so I was quickly on my way to the rendezvous point where I was to meet Jay. I stopped off for a cup of my favorite coffee, but arrived with military precision at exactly 0530 hours, to the astonishment of my friend. He joined me in the Tahoe and we were off to points south on our quest for redfish.

Dawn in Redfish Country (photo by Jay Preslar)

  Steve joined us at rendezvous number two just as dawn broke red against the eastern sky. “Red dawn- maybe a good omen for redfish,” I thought as we slipped the Hewes into the water. As we were venturing into territory unknown to me, I relinquished the helm to Steve, who is intimately familiar with the area. He pointed us away from the ramp and set a course for redfish. We were glad that we had all selected a couple of layers of warm clothing, as the early morning air blasting into our faces and bodies seemed to have been funneled directly from Antarctica. After a few minutes and some cunning conning by our captain, we lay to at a redfish port, ready to take on cargo. Steve had brought along some mud minnows, those hardy small fish that redfish usually hold high on their culinary lists. He rigged one for himself and one for Jay. I had brought along my baitcaster rig, one I had purchased for a trip to the Amazon a few years ago for peacock bass. It had been difficult for me to master. Master is actually much too strong a word, as my personal definition of that term had been to catch at least one peacock for every two hundred bird nest tangles I created in the spool. Through persistence, and a high quality reel, I was able to land a number of those magnificently colored and aggressive fish. I threw a very large lure measuring some seven inches in length called a “Woodchopper”. It is an intimidating piece of hardware featuring large aggressive props on each end and bearing three 3-0 treble hooks. It makes an impressive ripping sound as it is pulled through the water, and the large peacocks love them.  

The Woodchopper- A Dreadnought Topwater Lure

I thought it might be fun to catch a redfish here at home on the same rod. As my friends were using mud minnows, I opted for an alternative dining choice for the reds, a Gulp! Shrimp. While Steve and Jay casted their baits on modified Carolina rigs, letting them sit quietly at rest on the bottom, I rigged a Gulp! onto a smallish jighead. They had had no luck as I struggled to rig, then adjust the reel spool’s antibacklash knob for the weight of this particular setup.  They tried a couple of different spots, but to no avail. Once I finally felt ready to venture a cast, I was, to my complete amazement, able to put together an initial cast of some 25 feet, free of the dreaded bird nest. The Gulp! splashed down in what I fervently hoped to be the redfish zone, and settled to the bottom of the shallow, opaque, frigid water. It lay there perhaps thirty seconds before my rod signalled a bite and soon had a the familiar bend of a fish at its business end. The degree of bend was nowhere near that I had enjoyed when attached to a fifteen pound peacock, but satisfying nonetheless.In short order, I released a nice slot sized redfish.

One the Three Eagles who Fished with Us

As we fished, motion in the sky overhead caught our attention. Wheeling above us were three great Bald Eagles, in pursuit of breakfast. It is not often that one is treated to the sight of one of these magnificent birds, let alone three at once. Not to be outdone, a mother Atlantic Bottle Nosed Dolphin was seen a short distance from our position, giving instruction to her calf in the fine art of  locating and catching a dolphin’s staple food, the redfish. I take great delight in such opportunities to observe nature at work. It is an amazing world in which we live. I feel so very privileged to be able to live so near the coastal waters of our state.

Steve and I with the Object of our Quest

Neither Steve nor Jay had had even a nibble at this point. I threw my Gulp! back after disgorging it from my fish and rewarded by an almost instantaneous second strike. I brought to hand a second nice specimen, but this time was offered no assistance by my friends. They were already much too busy removing the minnows from their lines and adding Gulp! baits. Within a couple of minutes, Jay’s rod bent, and he excitedly worked his prize to the gunnel. He lifted it into the Carolina sunshine, admiring his catch. He was animated now, finally revealing his long kept redfish secret to me and Steve. As fate would have it, this was Jay’s very first redfish! I have known Jay for well over twenty years, but never knew this hidden truth.  It was widely known that he had never captured one on a fly, but we all had assumed that he had landed them using bait or hardware in the past. I suppose that reports of his redfish catches, like those of Mark Twain’s death, had been greatly exaggerated.

The First of Many!

Jay’s catch was recorded in appropriate pixel perfection, and he released it back into the sea. Steve, by now, seemed much more interested in simply watching us land these wonderful fish, and sat back, acting as guide and redfish clairvoyant. Jay excitedly hooked another red, a nice one that fell right at the upper slot limit at 22.5 inches. We placed this one in the live well.  He told us that his wife had expressed some doubts about his manliness, presumably due to his having never actually brought any fish home for the table, though I suppose there may be other reasons he declined to reveal. In any event, this was Jay’s day to play the role of hunter-gatherer, and he planned to filet and blacken this one, presenting it while bellowing loudly and beating his chest as proof of his ability to provide food to his mate. He reloaded and fired another cast with his spinning rod.  Soon enough, he was fighting yet another fish.

Jay and Steve with Jay's pre-blackening Redfish

With the newfound confidence of the suddenly successful, Jay assumed the air of a world authority of all things redfish. He went on and on about his expertise, how he had been slowly accumulating knowledge and a superior skill set over the past twenty years, just waiting on this opportunity to unleash his redfish acumen on the unsuspecting fish, as well as his fishing companions. He finally settled down when Steve and I threatened to abandon him, together with his prized redfish catch, on a nearby mud island carpeted with razor sharp oyster shells.  ” Maybe with all your technical prowess, you can cobble together a boat from the oysters, and have your redfish tow you back to the ramp!” I said. 

  Bravado aside, it was a thrill for me to see Jay land his first redfish, even though it had been accomplished using bait. I enjoy catching fish with such tactics myself, but greatly prefer the far more aesthetic fly rod. Winter fishing, for the most part, does not lend itself readily to the use of flies, so one must remain flexible in his approach.

Blackened Redfish, A dish that's almost too tasty!

A number of years ago, a New Orleans chef named Paul Prudhomme had popularized his phenomenally tasty blackened redfish dish to the point that the demand for a species which previously was considered a trash fish, very nearly overwhelmed its capacity to reproduce. Irresponsible commercial fishing practices, such as gill netting, came frighteningly close to sending redfish the way of the dinosaur. Thankfully, a small group of sportsmen developed a grassroots effort to have appropriate protective legislation enacted in states whose coastal waters hold redfish. This work has resulted, over time, in the flourishing redfish population that we enjoy today. Judicious use of the resource has ensured its presence for our grandchildren and all future generations. In South Carolina, anglers are allowed to keep three fish per day that measure between fifteen and twenty-three inches. This practice protects the brood stock and gives redfish an equitable opportunity to thrive as a species.

  During World War II, Hitler and his generals devised a plan to invade the island nation of Great Britain.  Hitler seems to have had no sense of history, as the last successful invasion of England had been by William the Conqueror in 1066. No more recent attempt has ever proved efficacious. Even the mighty, world dominating Spanish Armada failed, defeated by a small, but resourceful British navy. The Nazi operational planners code-named the invasion “Operation Sea Lion”.  The launch date for operations to commence was code-named “Alder Tag”, or “Eagle Day”. Hitler severely underestimated the resolve and courage of Britain’s tiny Royal Air Force, and his vastly numerically superior Luftwaffe was forced back to Fortress Europe by brave young men in their Spitfires and Hurricanes. Churchill summarized the Battle of Britain best when he said “Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few”. Perhaps the same can be said of that small band of persistent, visionary, and hard-working sportsmen who turned back the onslaught of the unrestrained commercial fishing industry in the Battle of the Redfish.

Winter's Redfish

It is difficult to think of the word jeopardy and not imagine Alex Trebec presenting his contestants with a board full of trivia clues. As we all know, the contestant must phrase his response in the form of a question to be awarded points. The contestant must not only know the answer, but must be first to activate his or her handheld buzzer in order to claim the points that can lead to riches.  Alex then plays his role as a judge of the quick and the cerebral. Who can forget Ken Jennings, gifted with each of these attributes, who won some seventy-five games and filled his pockets with $3.2 million dollars? An amazing display of knowledge and skill I will not soon forget.

Alex Trebec, Host of the Quiz Show Jeopardy!

 About a week ago, I played a form of this game. I received an email from my good friend, talented artist and fisherman, and just all round good guy, Steve Thomas. The clue contained in the email was “winter redfish.” My response , in the form of a question, was “When can I come?” Instead of a handheld buzzer, I had a mouse and you can believe that I hit that left button faster than our government can run up the national debt. We settled on Wednesday. I was aglow as I imagined the spotted tails, translucent blue tips rhythmically swaying starboard and port, slowly, majestically propelling the redfish through waters made air-clear by winter’s chill. Our coastal waters, normally turbid in the warmer months, turn Bahamian in their appearance after the low water temps kill off the algae, leaving water that looks like it was poured from an Evian bottle. For me, there is absolutely nothing like sight casting. Stalking, identifying, and casting to my target species is one of sporting life’s most sublime moments.  Steve advised that we would be fishing an area which does not lend itself readily to the use of the fly rod, as there is structure nearby.  I felt little remorse at not being able to wield the whippy stick, as I normally do. After all, were we to create a Venn Diagram of fishing. fly fisherman would clearly lie completely within the larger group known as fishermen, a complete subset, as it were.

A Venn Diagram of Fishermen Sorted by Technique

Once hooked, redfish possess an uncanny ability to detect such objects and use them to their advantage. To me catching these fish is pure sport, and maybe a bit of a spiritual experience, but to the fish, it is life or death. Little do they know I release all redfish to fight another day. Like the famous trout fisherman Lee Wolf once said. “Trout are too precious to catch only once.”  I feel the same about redfish.

Paul Prudhomme's Lousiana Kitchen

This is not say that I have never eaten one. I enjoyed what is one of the most memorable meals of my life in New Orleans at K-Paul’s restaurant on Charles Street. Paul Prudhomme’s blackened redfish, though considered controversial in the past, is one of the most savory entrees I have yet been privileged to enjoy. Highly recommended. Though not worthy of a dedicated journey to the Crescent City in and of itself, a trip combining a redfishing trip to the marshes around Hopedale and Dellacroix south of the city, as well as a plate of blackened redfish, belongs on every fisherman’s life list.

 Steve made the recommendation that we go to spinning gear and live bait. This concept is alien and somewhat uncomfortable to me. But, in the end, a tug by any other name would feel as sweet, to paraphrase The Bard.  The gossamer strands of tippets we attach to our flies would be of little use against the oyster and barnacle coated structure we faced. Better to deploy modern braided line to rage against the wood . Thus the decision was made to go natural in our presentation  technique. Steve’s previous field research determined that the lowly mud minnow to be the bait of choice on these redfish. Despite having their energy and response times sapped by the cold water, the fish proved able and willing to greedily inhale these offerings.  Circle hooks with flattened barbs and a sliding weight completed our redfish stealth package.

 I assumed the position in the fighting chair (a folding chair I had brought along), and Steve very graciously rigged my rod, and even added the bait by quickly inserting the hook, bottom to top, through the minnow’s lips, and handed me my weapon. He showed where to cast and I let slip my first cast into the crystal waters. Current ripped past me as the outgoing tide carried its load of millions of gallons of saltwater towards Mother Ocean. Not a cloud marred the perfection of a blue Carolina afternoon sky. Deafening silence met our ears, and I settled back, just in time to observe a harrier swing low across the marsh, searching for a midday repast. Ah, life was good.

 The bite was a bit slow at the top of the tide, but Steve managed to capture two lovely reds. I simply smiled as I watched his rod bow over and saw Steve skillfully bring those fish to hand. Their coloration seemed a bit lighter than the normally deep copper color I see in warmer months. “Perhaps another example of nature at work”, I surmised. As the water clears in the colder months, the fish’s color correspondingly decreases to hide itself a bit from its primary predator, the bottlenose dolphin.  Steve appeared a bit distressed that I had not yet connected, but I was at peace, enjoying a marvellous South Carolina winter afternoon deep in nature. Catching a red could only be considered a bonus.

 As I sat in my camping chair, I imagined I was in the fighting chair of an offshore boat, ballyhoo trailing behind me, but sans the ceaseless droning of the engines. I could almost feel the slow, gentle motion on the ocean’s surface. That vision, along with the warm afternoon sun, nearly sent my eyelids to the fully retracted position when the rod tip began a telegraph-like tap, tap, tap. The Morse code of the taps spelled R-E-D-F-I-S-H. I let the fish the hook itself, and began to bring it in for a closer inspection. Steve helped me unhook it. Before us was a nice redfish of some 23 inches. I admired its wondrous construction, the sun glinting off its almost iridescent tail, then slipped it back into the cold water of the creek. Life was now even better.

 Steve and I repeated this cycle a few times when we spied the approach of a vehicle. It bore the identifying markings of the South Carolina DNR. Of course, my initial reaction was “I hope I have my licence in my wallet!” I scrambled to pull out my wallet and discovered that indeed i did have the license tucked carefully away. I simply did not want to hear a man in a uniform and bearing a menacing looking handgun affixed to his belt utter those familiar words- “Your papers are NOT in order!” I guess I have watched too many old war movies. As it turned out, the two officers did not even inquire about paperwork, but rather how the fishing was.  Just then, I had another hit. After a brief fight, the redfish was in the net. The officer came over, leaned down, and removed the hook from the fish’s mouth. He measured it and asked if I would like to keep it. I told him ”No, I prefer to release them”, and he put the fish back in its home water. “Wow!” I thought to myself, ” I never thought I would live to see the day when a Game Warden would actually de-hook and release my fish for me!” What a nice guy.  It is comforting to know that there are law enforcement people out there who are genuine, nice folks who are there to ensure that adequate game resources remain for everyone’s use, and to help the public, not to harass them, as many people claim. I feel certain that some may abuse their authority, but this man proves that they cannot all be lumped into the same class.

Two of the South Carolina DNR's Finest!

We continued to cast and catch for an hour and a half. It was great fun and fellowship. There was another angler fishing in the same spot as us, catching a few nice reds also. Suddenly, he and Steve each got bit. Each man turned the handle of his reel furiously, but each was met with stiff resistance from the foe on the other end of the line. “Wow! Looks like you guys each must a monster redfish on!” I exclaimed.  Soon, the other angler succeeded in getting his fish to dry ground. It was at that moment that we realized what had occurred. The same redfish had eaten BOTH baits! This was obviously a very aggressive and hungry fish. Once in hand, it was apparent that both hooks were in the fish’s mouth. We were  surprised to see this. None of us had ever seen a fish take two separate baits at once. Several years ago, while bonefishing in the Abacos, a guy at the lodge claimed to have caught the same bonefish twice. He indicated that he had broken a nice fish off in the mangroves, losing the self designed custom fly he created specifically for these fish. The following day, when he returned to the same area, he landed a fish bearing not one, but two identical flies. I cannot attest to the veracity of this tale, but I can affirm that this redfish had two hooks in its mouth. photographic evidence is provided below.

 It is illegal to try a person twice for the same crime if they have been acquitted of the same crime by a jury of their peers. In legal circles, this is known as double jeopardy.  In the movie by the same name, starring Ashley Judd and Tommy Lee  Jones, a woman uses this legal doctrine to kill her husband after he frames her for murder. In the end she is released from responsibility for his death and set free. Just like our redfish.

The Pillage of Mechelen in October, 1572

 Etymology has remained a fascination since my college course by the same name, taken all those many years ago. In earlier years, I was faced by such a mass of knowledge to be ingested, processed, and stored that I had no time or energy remaining with which to ponder the sourcing of all those words I heard in lectures and read in textbooks and professional journals. Retirement does have its pleasures, not least of which is the opportunity to sit back, have a sip of coffee, and marvel at the beauty and genius of the intertwining of the varying pitches and timbres falling from our mouths, pens, and keyboards with which we communicate with each other and the rest of the world.

Treasure plundered from the Davidson, but only temporarily!

 As I fished the Davidson River a couple of weeks ago, the word pillage seemed to emerge from the fog of my trout obsessed mind. The word “pillage” conjures visions of invading medieval armies wantonly stealing every object of value in their conquered lands, laying waste to all in their paths.  The Davidson is a spectacular piece of water, ripe with a bounty of one of God’s loveliest creations, the trout. With the assistance of my guide Bill, I was privileged to enjoy close encounters of the piscine kind repeatedly over the course of two wonderful days. My mind drifted back to my youth, a time when catch and release practice was as well understood by my family and peer group as was quantum mechanics, though we had a fundamental grasp of “string” theory. The first time I saw television bass anglers turn back their fish to the water, I gasped with shock. “What kind of fool would throw back his catch?” I asked myself rhetorically. I failed to connect the dots with all the times in my youth that I had been to the lake, filled a cooler with crappie, had a family fish fry, then stuffed the remaining uneaten fish in the freezer, only to toss them in the garbage a few months later. Had I no conscience ( or guide), history could have easily repeated itself on the Davidson, so plentiful are the trout there.

That's the twelfth fly I have put over that rainbow!

The origins of the word pillage are quite interesting. Going back to the Old French, the word connoted “To Plunder.” If we look a bit deeper, its Latin origin is “Pilare”. This literally means to “pull out the hair.” The origin of this term was, in turn, from another Latin root word- “Pilur”, or “hair.”  Like most trout anglers, I simply could not imagine pillaging a river by killing every trout I manage to catch. I can, however, recall all the many, many times I have wanted to pull my own hair out after matching wits with a difficult trout, a creature with an I.Q. of 0.000001, only to walk away muttering to myself. I think that it is fair to say that the trout have pillaged me, rather than the reverse. Those obstinate trout need to read the 4th Geneva Convention, which specifically forbids the act of pillaging by warring nations. Perhaps I should read it aloud to them before entering the river’s waters, just as a gentle reminder .

 As I struggled to maintain an upright posture in the fast flowing waters of the Davidson, I became acutely aware of my advancing age. Leaning on a wading staff to steady mtself, I felt like a feeble, weak old man as the current flapped the waders around my calves. I recall not so long ago thinking that sixty was a very advanced age. Now that I am a member of the sexagenarian club myself, it suddenly seems not all that old, at least until my achy knees and back inject a little reality into my thinking. Despite my mental youth, I am indeed, acquiring an old man’s body and I am not the sexy-genarian I have claimed to be.  To paraphrase a line from the popular movie Top Gun, “My mind is writing checks my body just can’t cash!” As I was forced to swallow a couple more pain pills, as well as my pride in order to remain in the river, the word pillage began to take on a new meaning, an etymology of my own invention.

Go Ask Alice

 ”One pill makes larger, and one pill makes you small.” So go the opening lyrics to Grace Slick’s song “White Rabbit”, an ode to the Sixties drug culture, and to Lewis Carroll’s fantasy world of Alice in Wonderland. Many speculate that Carroll’s tale may be a recollection of his own psychedelic adventures in a time before mind expansion through pharmacologic agents became so accepted and widespread.

Feed Your Head!

Or perhaps, he simply possessed an unusally imaginative mind. It is certainly not a giant leap to imagine his creations to have emerged from popular drugs of his day. Indeed, I wonder exactly what the Caterpillar may have been smoking in that hookah.

A Sixty Year Old's Version of Pillage

 Pillage has now taken on an entirely new, and somewhat disconcerting meaning in my own life. I am beginning to think of it as “Pill Age.”  I have achieved a few years ago, truth be told, middle age. Middle age, as we all are aware, is that point in life where your middle begins to show your age. As the passage of time takes it inevitable toll on my physical being, I grow ever increasingly dependent on medications of various sorts to maintain a reasonable quality of life. The infirmities that accompany aging are plunderers themselves. They pillage a person of their normal bodily functions, such as blood pressure, cholesterol levels, even sexual function. These days I find that I need a pill for almost everything in my life. I take a pill for my hypertension, another for my cholesterol, yet another for my arthritis. Sleep for longer than two to three hours has become completely impossible without a pill. When arthritis drugs become insufficient to control my discomfort or allow an adequate level of function , I even take pain pills. It is difficult to deny that you have reached “Pill Age’ when you need assistance even in the physical expression of your love for your wife.  Contemplation of my aches, pains, and physical failure can lead to a degree of anxiety and even depression. Guess what- there are pills for those issues also! So many things that were so natural and easy in my younger days now all require pharmaceutical intervention. Perhaps our bodies really were not meant to have a useful service  life of more than fifty years.

 These days I have increased time available for watching television. I have been amazed at some of the things I have seen on TV. It has become apparent to me that a very reliable way to become wealthy in America is to buy television advertising time, and present commercials for products that promise to make people thin, make them rich, or cure their arthritis. I continue to seek that pill which will extend my useful fly fishing life. Perhaps I should pursue a similar path to the carnival barkers featured in the television adverts and create a pill for fly fishermen. It could not possibly be too dificult to concoct some admixture of herbs, vitamins, saw palmetto, and glucosamine that might be just the magic elixir to keep us “experienced” fishermen going strong into our eighties. Imagine a pill that could cure your arthritis, decrease your body weight, and even increase the modulus of your rod, to so speak. I’ll be chasing GT’s and giant bonefish in the Seychelles in no time once I get this formula perfected!!

A typical Davidson River Rainbow

The famous seventeenth century English poet John Milton is most well known for his poetic epic “Paradise Lost.” Educated at Cambridge, Milton enjoyed an international reputation as a poet and polemicist. In his latter years, he lost his vision, likely due to glaucoma, and was forced to dictate his poems to a scribe. His sonnet “On His Blindness” explores his question of how could he possibly serve God in his blindness. The answer comes in the final line of the sonnet -”They also serve who only stand and wait.”

Poet John Milton

 This poem is ironically similar to my own present circumstances. My wife has departed the comfortable environs of our home for a remote place in a distant part of the world with a mission team to provide care, both physical and spiritual, to peoples lacking in both. I, meanwhile, remain here, defending the homefront and ready to deal with such domestic issues as may arise.

 As Milton’s words filtered slowly into my mind prior to her departure, it occurred to me that standing and waiting might be interpreted in more than one way. Not surprisingly, my mind began to visualize standing in a trout stream while waiting on a heavy rainbow to rise to a winter midge hatch. So, as she packed Bibles and bandaids, I packed rods and reels.

 After depositing her at the airport, I pointed my Tahoe north, towards the mountains of North Carolina. Research on the internet had led me to the Davidson River, in Brevard, North Carolina. Conveniently, a well established fly shop is located a double haul from the Davidson in Brevard. It is known as Davidson River Outfitters. A phone call placed a week prior to arrival had assured me a spot on their private water, as well as the services of one of their top guides.

 The drive was amazingly simple. Thanks to that marvellous gift from Eisenhower to the American people known as the interstate highway system, I was able to complete the journey in a mere four and a half hours, without exceeding the speed limit at any point.

 As I approached higher elevations, the outside air temperature gauge in my SUV slowly, but steadily dropped. As I crossed the peaks of Tryon, North Carolina, mysterious white matter appeared along the road, and the gauge now registered a mere seventeen degrees. I was unaware that my gauge was even capable of registering so low a reading. A stop in Hendersonville for quick cup of coffee introduced me to a sport for which I have never been properly trained - ice skating. In a display of what could only be attributed to Divine Protection, I was able to re-enter the Tahoe with coffee and all limbs intact. Thirty minutes later, I pulled into the Brevard Hampton Inn.

 The following morning, the Weather Channel reported the temperature to be a balmy twenty-two degrees. Thoughts of Walter Matthau went through my head as I hummed the old tune “Having a heat wave, a tropical heat wave.” Unaccustomed as I am to such frigid conditions, I pondered my apparel choice for the day. As I considered my naturally occurring, somewhat thick layer of lipid insulation, I thought of minimizing external clothing. Ultimately, I thought better of it, deciding that shedding excessive clothing a better alternative than being underprepared for the still biting cold. I donned an undershirt, a long sleeved hunting shirt, a sweater, a pair of insulated pants designed to be worn under waders, and wool socks. I considered leaving the socks behind, worried that their bulk might preclude stuffing my feet,the socks, and the neoprene feet that are part of my waders into my ancient wading boots. I wondered how I would be able to cast in such restrictive garments, but made my way, like the Bilbo Man from Michelin, to the Tahoe. I had not yet donned waders and boots, preferring to defer that task until I reached the shop.

Davidson River Outfitters

Upon entering Davidson River Outfitters, I met Bill, my affable guide for my two days of trout pursuit. He directed me to a bench where I provided early morning entertainment to staff and customers as I struggled mightily to stuff a massive amalgam of body, clothes, and woolen socks into my waders and boots. After a fifteen minute wrestling match, I was triumphant! I borrowed a large towel and wiped the sweat away from my head and neck, lest I become a FreezePop upon reentering the atmosphere outside the store.

The Davidson is a clear,cold freestone river like those in Montana or Alaska

 We loaded the gear into Bill’s vehicle and made our way to the private stretch of the river, just outside of town. It seems that there once stood on the banks of the Davidson at that spot a paper mill. It made the very thin paper used in Bibles. “How fitting, I thought”, as I watched Bill assemble the rods, feeding the fly line up the guides, careful to double it over so as to prevent it falling by gravity back through the guides to the cold ground. He tied on 7X tippet and rigged a double nymph configuration with an adjustable “strike indicator”, or bobber as we less sophisticated fishermen call such things. Next we made our way to the water through the leafless grey trees and bushes along the bank. The river was a shallow, clear, cold, Alaskan style freestone stream, running swift through the winter valley. The air was crisp and the water was just marginally above freezing. Ice formed on downed wood in the river. Despite the bottom topography’s gentle appearance, I unfolded my wading staff and gingerly entered the water, grasping Bill’s arm as a secondary precaution against slipping and filling my waders with the icy liquid that flowed quickly past us. Bill wanted to fish an area just downstream a bit, and he led the way over the rocks littering the river bottom. I slowly followed, feeling my way with felt soled shoes, and probing for stability between the stones with the tip of my staff.  I must admit that I felt like a feeble old man as I timidly made my way to the spot Bill had selected to fish. I rarely trout fish these days, the last outing having occurred some years ago. I would have been able to match Bill stride for stride back then, but now, I was only able to participate in the day’s fishing by utilizing pain medication and anti-inflammatory drugs.  I reflected on my ever increasing dependence on medications, and was shocked by what I discovered as I counted the ways I am forced to use them to remain functional. But more on that topic in another post.

The water is exquisitely cold, forming artistic ice sculptures

 My feet were now frighteningly cold. I was no longer able to feel my toes. I noted immediately on entering the water how very cold the water was, even through my socks, the neoprene of the waders, and my boots. “Bill,” I asked, “Are your feet cold?” “Very” was his reply. “Better man up,” I told myself.  ” You have two full days of this to deal with.”  I caught up with Bill, and he told me exactly where to cast and how to mend the line for a more natural presentation. For the uninitiated, mending is a technique used by fly fishermen to prevent the fly line from pulling, or dragging, the fly downstream as current moves the line faster than the water flow. This is done by lifting the rod tip in a quick semi-circular fashion so as to create an upstream based loop on the surface of the water in order to negate the effect of current flow. It is an art, and one that requires a certain degree of finesse. I struggled with it, as it had been a while since I had done any serious trout fishing. The complicated leader system was unforgiving to errors in casting and Bill spent a good part of his day untangling my fouled tippet sections. He took it in good stride, never losing his patience with me. “Hey, it’s what I do!” he explained, displaying incredible equanimity. Finally, my clumsy efforts were rewarded with a strike by a beautiful, heavily spotted rainbow trout.

My First Love Rediscovered!

 We fished on upcurrent, catching several nice fish along the way. In spite of the cold, now at its maximum reading of forty degrees for the day, I was having a blast! My fly fishing career had begun by trout fishing at a dude ranch in Montana when my daughters were youngsters. Now, it was like encountering my first love after so many years, and falling in love all over again.  It was wonderful and euphoric, but soon I was brought back to earth by the increasing pain in my knees and back. By now, my morning doses had worn off, and I reached into my vest pocket for an additional pill. The words of a John Prine song floated through my conciousness as I gazed across the river. “Old rivers just grow stronger every day, but old people just grow lonesome..” And they get arthritis, I added as I readied another cast.

Sometimes dams are good!

As we worked upstream, we encountered a small dam built by the now defunct paper mill. It was a weir dam. “That’s not only a weir dam, it’s a weird dam,” I though as I watched the water fall over its three-foot height. It extended across the river, but unlike most dams that completely stop the flow of water in a stream or river, a weir dam is designed to allow water to flow over it, its falling motion creating deep pools on the downstream side. The mill used this deep pool as a water source for its operations. The pool also just happens to make very nice habitat for trout, and we finished our fishing day there. I was able to stand in the river and make long saltwater style double haul casts into the foamy waterline just in front of the dam. I was rewarded by a few nice rainbows in the sixteen to eighteen inch range. It was quite pleasant, but my achy knees and frozen feet forced me take a break on the bank. I handed the rod to Bill and implored him to show me how the pros do it. Bill is a competitive trout fisherman, appearing on television a number of times in such contests. Competitive trout fishing seems an oxymoronic term to me, but Bill’s experiences in that arena would bear fruit for me the following day. It was a pleasure to watch his silky smooth loops unfurl towards the dam. As I have heard Lefty say, “Those loops were tight enough to go through a screen door!” Obviously, he wasn’t speaking about my casting! I was even privileged to see Bill fight a nice bow. Letting your guide fish at least a little often proves a learning experience for the angler. This was certainly true in my case.

Bill doing some "weir-d" casting!

 We next crossed the river and found our way back to the vehicle and the shop. When I sat down on that bench and removed my boots, I discovered that my socks were soaking wet!!! The neoprene had been leaking all day. My feet were fire-red and very itchy, early signs of frostbite. I went back to the hotel and soaked them in warm water. Soon after, all was well. The thought of having to wear smaller shoes for the remainder of my life frightened me, so I resolved to rent a set of new waders for my second day in the frigid waters of the Davidson.

 My second day was as good as it gets in winter on a trout stream. Air temps were now in the mid fifties and no clouds were to be seen. Ensconced in my new waders and boots, I was dry and comfortable, though still feeling decidedly old and semi-invalid. I had to steady myself on Bill’s arm as I made the descent into the river down an embankment measuring all of three feet. Though I felt feeble and helpless, it beat the alternative. Getting soaked in this water would be a life threatening event, requiring an immediate hot bath and clothing change. Better to appear weak than risk losing my final fishing day, I reasoned, making myself feel a bit better.

 I fished that day with a very costly bamboo fly rod which had been presented to me as a gift by an old friend from Boston many years ago. Tom and I have not seen each other in perhaps fifteen years, yet we remain in contact with frequent emails and phone calls.  There is nothing so valuable in life as old friends, unless it is old rods given to you by old friends.

Old Friends!

 My first three casts were rewarded by strikes. Three nice rainbows came to the net and were quickly released by Bill. “You’re on fire!” Bill exclaimed as the third fish slowly swam back to its lair. ” I am merely the rod actuator, Bill” I explained. “You actually caught those fish.” “Left to my own devices, I would still be trying to untangle that first leader from yesterday.”

 Bill moved us downstream a bit to a stretch of fresh water that sported a sandy white bottom,, great for walking as well as spotting fish. We saw a number of trout, several among them in the twenty plus inch range.”OK, I am going to let you in on a secret I learned from trout competition.”, Bill told me, speaking in hushed tones that let me know how serious this was. “I have a fly that was invented by a Polish fisherman named Vladi Trzebunia. He makes it from a colored condom. Don’t laugh. He won the World Championship with it.” “You’re kidding.’ I said. “Not at all. The fly is deadly on the trout in this river. It is one of my favorites. It is called the Vladi Worm.”

A real rubber worm !

 He tied one on my leader and I cast about ten feet upstream from one of those large trout. Bam! He nailed it and soon we had a nice nineteen incher in the net. “Wow!” I remarked. “This fly doesn’t screw around, does it?” Bill laughed and we went on to take a couple more fish with it before one of my errant casts left it dangling on a tree limb across the river, irretrievable from our position. “Screw it” Bill said. We’ll use something else.”  By now the sun had warmed the air sufficiently for the insects to begin hatching. Various sizes of tan colored flies seemed to be everywhere. Interesting for mid-January. Bill tied on a size twelve Elk Hair Caddis and a size twenty-two black wing olive nymph as a dropper well below it. Meanwhile, I had spotted a nice trout lying behind a smallish rock. I threw the rig a bit upcurrent of the fish, When the dry fly floated, dragfree and natural over its head, the trout shot up to surface and inhaled it. A few jumps later, we released it from our net.

A Plan Comes Together!!!

  It was a perfect day on the water. I had success with both dry feet and dry flies. Life was good. While Milton had it right about standing and serving, he had it backwards about Paradise. This was Paradise Found!!!!

 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.

Blending in with the fall colors- nature's camouflage

   This was the one fishing trip that my wife and daughters planned for me. All I had to do was to drive the Tahoe, laden with my wife, the inlaws, our luggage, food, and fishing gear, to the mountains of southern North Carolina. There we were to meet my two lovely daughters, accompanied by their husbands and my sweet, sweet granddaughter, Presley. The girls had spent incalculable hours scouring the Web for a just right rental house - not too far away, not too small, not too large, and not too expensive. They had settled on  a very attractive house situated on Lake Glenville, just outside Cashiers, North Carolina. Lake Glenville , as I discovered on the internet, holds the distinction of being the lake having the highest elevation east of the Mississippi River. Quite deep, its maximum depth runs some 125 feet. It is reputed to hold bass, both largemouth and smallmouth, in addition to walleye and panfish. I was a bit disappointed to learn that I would be unable to cast to rainbows or browns, but there were many troutwaters to be fished nearby.

The House by the Lake

   Once we settled in, the first order of business was to build a fire. The chilly, rainy weather made a crackling fire both appealing and relaxing. Hot mugs of coffee were enjoyed by the fire as we enjoyed catching up, and planning our adventures in the mountains. We were all delighted to see Miss Presley crawling in all directions, playing and smiling at us. Life was indeed good.

 The drive up had been uneventful, uninteresting, and boring until we reached the ascent into the foothills of the Smokies. The constant climbing and endless switchbacks brought the Tahoe to a crawl, but that was just as well. The magnificent colors of the fall foliage were simply spectacular. The strong winds associated with a passing cold front produced a steady swirling of multicolored leaves formed into vortices on their journey to the ground. The scene was quite intoxicating.

Fabulous Fall Tapestry- courtesy of the Great Artist

   It is good , on occasion, to step back and consider the appropriate priorities in life. I find myself sometimes guilty of obsessing so about fishing that I need to re-examine the order of things in my life. Family is number one. As I sat in the great room of our temporary abode and watched my family interacting, preparing meals, reading, playing, or even just napping, the curtain seemed to be drawn back a bit, and I realized just then how fortunate I am. God has blessed me with two wonderful daughters who make me swell with pride at not only their accomplishments, but at what caring, responsible people they have become. It appears that my prime directive in life has been fulfilled through them. I can relax now, secure in the knowledge that the work my wife and I began at the birth of my elder daughter is now complete. Having a steadfast companion in my wife, someone I can rely on without any doubt, is extremely comforting as I enter that final phase of the incredible life God has set for me.

Brookings Fly Shop in Cashiers, NC very helpful folks!

 I anxiously checked the weather on the internet, grateful that the house was equipped with Wi-Fi. The forecast for the following day was perfect. Sixty degrees, clear skies, and little wind. Now to locate a fishable stream and secure a license. My father in law and I took the ladies into town the next morning to resupply the kitchen. While they shopped, Charles and I found the local fly shop, and made some inquiries. We bought temporary fishing licenses, complete with trout stamps, a selection of local favorite flies, and attempted to arrange a float trip. The only nearby floatable river is a tailwater, the Tuckaseegee, and would be too low to float for the next several days, as the power generation schedule showed no water releases during our time in Cashiers. The shop owner graciously provided us with a map and excitedly told us that the delayed harvest water on the French Broad River had been “super-stocked” only a week earlier. A bunch of dumb trout fit our bill to a “T.” Off to the French Broad we went.

Read these signs carefully there will be a test later by the Game Warden

  I consider myself a reasonably intelligent person. I hold an MD degree and a few others. Yet, I find North Carolina’s trout regulations phenomenally arcane and confusing. The regs apply to different rivers at different times, and may vary, even within the same body of water. Having my close friend and attorney Mike along would have been quite the asset on this excursion, but this time Charles and I would be left to our own devices in dealing with the law. A discussion with the owner of a guide service unmuddied the waters a bit for me. The stretch of the French Broad where we were to fish had been designated ”Delayed Harvest Trout Waters”. It was explained to me that means that absolutely no natural bait of any kind could be used there, a real plus for a couple of fly rodders. Also, only hooks with a single barb were allowed, again good for the flycaster. Additionally, no fish were to be kept. All caught fish must be released. To a catch and release enthusiast such as myself, this was welcome news, as it increased the number of available fish. To Charles, an old school  example of the hunter gatherer concept, it was a bit disappointing. Charles did cheer up a bit when we discovered that these delayed harvest waters are stocked in late October. It was now the first weekend in November. Oh Joy!!!  A beautiful clear river filled with huge numbers of totally stupid hatchery fish. Perfect for casual trout fishermen like ourselves.

  The fly shop owner had mentioned that the journey to the French Broad would consume “about thirty minutes” of our flyfishing day. In actuality, it was an hour, and that is merely to arrive in the vicinity of the river. No matter, as the drive was quite pleasant, as was the company. Actually locating the fishable portion of the river proved more challenging. Our map looked like it had been run through the copier at least seven thousand times, and making out the fine details proved difficult for my sixty year old eyes. After a few false starts ( each carrying a five minute penalty), we at last found the object of our desire. We were shocked to find a very large number of fly fishermen already present. The water itself was gorgeous. The French Broad River proved to be a stream of modest proportions, its water running cold and clear. Its fish were protected by overhanging rhododendron and mountain laurel branches, which added to both the casting difficulty, as well as the beauty of this picturesque stream.

 After driving along the river for a while, seeking solace from the crowds, I spied a gravel road which cut sharply back from the paved road, paralleling the course of the river. I wheeled the Tahoe into it, and soon stopped at the most open spot along the bank I could see. Upon disembarking, we assembled our rods, and tied on our flies, and ambled to the water’s edge. I saw no fish initially, but soon my eyes focused on what I perceived to be two logs or large sticks in the water. Then I saw one of them move. It rolled ninety degrees to port, exposing its brown spotted side to my widely gaped eyes and my utter amazement. It was an extremely large brown, in fact, there were two of them. They were the largest specimens this angler has yet encountered. Without exaggeration, I would estimate 28 to 30 inches! Needless to say, I focused all my efforts in an attempt to hook one of these magnificent fish, though realistically, the odds of landing one on my flimsy little four weight homebuilt whippy stick were about the same as winning the powerball prize. But try I did. I expended perhaps 35 minutes in this losing effort. The fish never even twitched at my offerings. I am certain that they saw me as I approached down the bank, and it was game over at that point. I grudgingly suggested to Charles that we move on.

 Back in the Tahoe, we drove past the other anglers, and through a farm field to a point where the road terminated in a “tee” intersection. There we turned right and followed the FBR (French Broad River) for a little distance until I found a likely spot that was devoid of anglers. I suspected that it might be devoid of trout as well, but when I walked a short ways to a bend in the stream, I saw a pod of trout holding over a light colored bottom. They reminded me of a school of bonefish in the Bahamas, except that these fish were courteous enough to sit still so I could cast to them.

Mountain Bones!

   Arrayed before us lay a large group of freshly released trout. Among them were two brood fish, maybe 18 inches. We were excited and hurried to offer them our flies. I cast fist a dry fly, but no avail. Next, I tried a terrestrial. Finally I went to an egg pattern, reasoning that it might resemble the trout chow to which they were accustomed. It worked! I soon landed a small rainbow of maybe ten inches. After catching and releasing a few, I turned my attention to Charles. Charles is an extremely accomplished outdoorsman, having caught more fresh and saltwater fish than I could in three lifetimes. Now some eighty three years old, and having had a stroke a few years ago, casting has become more challenging to him. I decided it was time for me to play guide for him. I tied on a bead head wooly booger, and then an egg pattern some 14 inches below that. I assisted him a bit with his casting and after a number of attempts, he landed a very nice 15 inch fish. I was completely overjoyed, much more excited and happy than he. Charles is a true inspiration to me. He gives me hope that no matter how old I may be fortunate enough to become, and no matter my infirmities, there is always a way to enjoy time outdoors.

A Happy Angler!

  After being frustrated somewhat as the fish became a bit more wary, I walked downstream, slipped off my socks and shoes, and did a little real wet wading, completely barefoot. I sneaked up along the opposite bank, my feet blocks of ice, and made clandestine casts from a rear position to the fish as they faced the oncoming current. They succumbed to the wolly booger as well as the egg fly. After catching a satisfying number, I retreated to shore and replaced my socks and shoes on my numb feet. Cold, but happy, we reboarded the SUV and headed back in the direction of Cashiers.

Wet Wading the FBR!!!

  As we drove, Charles talked about how much fun he had had. I agreed, but my mind went back to those two heavy duty browns we have encountered earlier. The steering wheel willed itself to turn back onto that gravel road as we neared. Quick as a bunny, I was back in the river, shoeless again, trying a San Juan worm. The big brown did finally make a turn towards my fly as it drifted silently past, seductively undulating its body. Not be fooled, the trout demonstrated why it had gotten so large by returning to its lie, leaving my heart fluttering. My reverie was interrupted by the appearance of a man in a pickup. “May I help you?, he asked, the tone of his voice making it clear that he was not interested in assisting me in my quest to hook the monster before me. Suddenly it came to me - we must be on private property, despite having seen no sign. ” I am very sorry, sir,” I responded.”I did not see any indication that this area is private. I thought this was a public road.” He indicated that I could stay a few more minutes, but I immediately exited the river, donned my shoes and socks, and left.  The dream would go unrealized.  Private property rights are just that. I would never knowingly trespass. Perhaps next year I can knock on his door and ask permission, now that I know the deal. Oh, and I’ll need a bigger rod!

 Back in Cashiers, I was able to spend some high quality time with my wife, daughter, and inlaws while we fished off the dock behind the house. We failed to capture a single fish, but were instead rewarded with something infinitely more valuable – family memories of time spent together.

No fish, just lots of Memories!

Fishing with my Daughter- Does it get any better?

Euthynnus alletteratus

The recently and dearly departed high water redfish season was not kind to me this year. My quest to connect to at least some of the usually numerous and cooperative redfish which frequent our lovely local flats met with utter failure this season. Despite several trips and many hours spent on those mud and spartina islands dotting our coastline, I failed to hook a single redfish. I suppose that it may be true that it is, indeed, better to have cast and lost, than never to have cast at all. Still, unrequited casting sooner or later leads to frustration and pain. Cloaking my unfulfilled desire for feeling the power of a redfish unwinding my nine weight reel in poetic descriptions of nature’s majesty have doubtless fooled few.

 Hope, as they say, does spring eternal in every fisherman’s soul, and I am no exception. As October unrolled itself towards Halloween and November, I began to consider the remarkable fishery which exists within a four hour drive of my home. For each of the past twelve years, I have journeyed up the coast to North Carolina’s Crystal Coast in pursuit of one my most revered fly rod targets, the mighty False Albacore. This animal is the stuff of a saltwater fly fisherman’s dreams. It possesses all the speed and power of a tuna, but is inedible, making it unsuitable for commercial, or even recreational harvest. It moves through a long migration, beginning in New England, sweeping  south through the Outer Banks, and down along Florida’s Atlantic coast. These fish range from six to twenty pounds or more. Like all tunas, they are exceptionally hard fighters, reknown for scorching runs and deep dives. If they were any larger, it would be a bridge too far for most fly rodders, but this fight to weight ratio make them ideal for rods in the nine to ten sizes.

What’s more, at least in certain vicinities, they are want to appear in amazingly shallow waters, making them available to stalwart fly anglers. Happily, the waters around Cape Lookout, near Beaufort, NC, are ideally suited for these hungry predators. Here the bottom drops rapidly away from shore, and massive quantities of glass minnows and smaller microbaits( known as “snot bait”), are readily available in the fall months. In a true natural spectacle, these fish rush from below into tightly packed baitballs, their momentum propelling the fish’s bodies clear of the water, and spraying bait in all directions. Ever the fisherman’s friend, seabirds such as gulls and gannets take advantage of this smorgasboard, their diving and hovering above the fish pods creating an easily seen pointer to the albacore.  Once the angler makes a motor off, stealthy approach, he or she can let slip match the hatch type flies, then hang on as the “albies” test both angler and equipment.

     I have been blessed to have experienced many years of spectacular albie fishing, but I have also seen a few years in which the fish seemed to be “sipping” gently on “snot bait”, refusing any and all flies, no matter how artfully tied or cleverly presented. Last year, however, it was ON! Albies were everywhere, eager to eat any fly they could see. Life was good.  After a heart wrenching redfish season, I was full of anticipation for the return of the false albacore to Cape Lookout. So, after hearing the reports of fifteen fish days from a very good friend, I attached my trusty Hewes Light Tackle to my Tahoe and dialed Harker’s Island, North Carolina up on the Tahoe’s GPS system.

“I left my home in Conway,  headed for Cape Lookout Bay                                                       

I had nothing to fish for, looks like nothing gonna come my way”

 Apologies to Otis Redding, but I was reminded of the great soul singer’s signature song from the sixties by my current piscatorial situation.  I arrived at the world famous Harker’s Island Fishing Center just after a strong cold front had rolled through the previous day. Thirty knot winds and seven inches of rain had left their marks on the water and waves at the Cape. My old friend and former comrade in arms from the days of my orthopedic surgery practice, Keith, and I sat on the deck of our luxury second floor accommodations and tried to make sense of our chances to connect to a few Fat Alberts, as some call the false albacore, the following day. It would be the first of two days scheduled for fishing.   As we did, I was reminded that during his days in office, George Herbert Walker Bush was among the guests at HIFC. I took some comfort in knowing that despite accommodations ranking somewhere south of Motel Six, they should be suitable for the likes of me, given the fact that POTUS had stayed here. We gazed down at the mixture of albie addicts who had convened here from various locales around the world. We were especially fascinated by the fellow who drove his converted Fedex truck up and treated us to a close inspection of a true beach fishing machine. It seems that there is a ferry which conveys people, vehicles, and even animals across to Cape Lookout National Seashore. I was amused to see that non-humans have a separate rate. Keith, not so subtlely, inquired if I thought I might be able to take advantage of the lower rate.

Ex- Fedex for Fishing!

Cape Lookout and Environs- A World Class False Albacore Fishery

“Sittin’ here resting my bones,

the six foot waves won’t leave me alone”

 Keith and I in my Hewes, together with Ross and Woody in his Sea Pro center console, pulled away from the HIFC dock Friday morning, filled to gunnels with anticipation. Visions of hundreds of albies flinging themselves skyward, and onto our fly lines, filled our heads as we carefully negotiated the shallow waters behind Shackleford Bank, the last barrier between Harker’s Island and the tempestuous Atlantic Ocean. A bright cloudless sky added to our hopes as we rounded the final buoy leading us into the “Hook”, a protected bay hard by the Cape Lookout lighthouse. In past years, I have routinely observed multiple schools of albies busting up bait in these calm waters, but none were to be found this day. “No matter” I thought as we neared the bell buoy that demarcated the Hook from the open ocean. ” The fish are on the westside today,” I told Keith.” We’ll find them soon, just look for the birds.” Suddenly, we were in a new world. Instead of the pond like conditions of the Hook, we faced a steady assault by six foot rollers. Fortunately, the period of the waves was long, and we were in no imminent danger of a wave breaking over us, capsizing and sinking our flats boat. But I was a bit out of my comfort zone.  The Sea Pro is a deep V design well suited for such conditions, and Woody confidently steamed on towards the Rock Jetty and beyond. I called Ross on my new iPhone, and informed him that I was coming about and headed back to the dock to await calmer conditions. Timing the waves, I executed a course reversal and made for calmer waters. Keith and I sat in the Hook for a bit, hoping to spot a pod or two of feeding albies, but could not even find any bluefish, a constant occupant of the area. After a while we balked and chose to head in and take a break.  On the return trip, a slight bit of confusion on the part of the captain led to a brief grounding, making me ponder the reason for non-standard channel marker placement. It was not a big deal, though I did have to get my feet wet as I pushed the boat some ten yards off a sandbar.

View of the Lighthouse from "The Hook"

 Back at HIFC, I took a long nap, dreaming albie dreams. After a wakeup cup of Joe, Keith and I headed back out, anticipating flatter waters. Upon reaching the bell buoy, our hopes were dashed. The waves had indeed lessened, but remained daunting at three to four feet. Dejected, we sat in the Hook for a while, again denied the sight of leaping albies, or even blues. We motored back to HIFC for the night, secured the boat in its slip, and headed in for a shower, dinner, and an early retirement.

Saturday broke clear and calm, once more raising our spirits. Our two boat flotilla navigated the channel to the bell buoy without incident, and the search was on. We ran from the Hook, to the Point of Cape Loookout Island, all the way out to Shark Island, a small spit of exposed sand some mile and a half past the point, all to no avail. We considered crossing the shoals, in an area known as The Slot, in order to search the eastside of the shoals, but recent storms had shuffled the sand and we thought better of it. Instead, we pointed our bows towards Beaufort Inlet, and proceeded in that direction. False albacore are like gold - they are where you find them, and they can be anywhere in the thirty mile area from Bogue Inlet to Cape Lookout or even up to Drum Inlet. Mostly, however, they seem to prefer the corridor from the Hook to Beaufort Inlet. Despite pleasant conditions and very hospitable seas, we failed to locate even a single diving bird. There were a few pelicans about, but the gulls and gannets were elsewhere that day. No albies could be found. The water was deeply stained by the heavy outfall of local rivers swollen by seven inches of rain associated with that pesky cold front from a few days prior to our visit. Apparently, the albies prefer less polluted “air”, or maybe it’s the bait that likes more pristine conditions. In either case, we were left running forty five miles and had not a fish, nor digital image of a fish, to show for our efforts.

  After a relaxing lunch at a dockside restaurant in Beaufort, we resumed the hunt. We steamed back to the Hook, following the beach, then swung out to the shoals, and back again to the Hook, all to no avail. Not a fin was sighted.  Woody pulled up alongside my boat once we had reached the confines of the Hook, where we strategized. After some discussion, it seemed clear that our best plan was a strategic withdrawal. No one, not even internationally known guides like Brian Horseley, had been able to locate the albies. It was time to call in the dogs and piss on the fire. This expedition was finished.  Defeated, we slinked back to the dock at HIFC, and loaded our boats onto their trailers for the trip home.

“Looks like nothings gonna change, everything remains the same

 I can’t catch a fish no matter what I do, so I guess I’ll remain the same too”

 A recent candidate for political office promised “Hope and Change”. That is exactly what I sought on this trip to what is arguably the finest false albacore fishery on the planet. Although I did not experience change in my fishing luck, I still retain hope. In fact, I continue to scour the various internet message boards focusing on albie fishing at Cape Lookout, eagerly looking for a positive sign, no matter how small.  I purposely did not delete HIFC from the list of destinations on my GPS.

The underlying theme that fishing is about more than fish was reinforced to all of us this weekend. Good times with good friends can be had with or without fish. That, my friends, truly is what it’s all about.

Redfish Ecumenicism

“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven”.

The author of these well known words remains in dispute by Biblical scholars, though many believe the likely writer was King Solomon. Widely regarded as one of the most brilliant minds in recorded history, Solomon’s philosophical musings in the book of Ecclesiastes continue to provide intellectual stimulation to today’s readers, as it has to so many for the past three thousand years. My goal is to uncover messages hidden in these ancient words which I, as a fisherman, might find instructive and useful in my pursuit of the decidedly non-philosophical activity of fishing.

A brief review of the etymology of the word “Ecclesiastes” reveals that the Hebrew form of the word, which I will decline to attempt to reproduce here in its original form, refers to “The Book of the Teacher”. Further study shows us that the original Hebrew word includes a participle meaning “to gather”. I find these two ideas intriguing.

I look forward each year to the beginning of the month of October. As the cooler temperatures begin their gradual intrusion onto the pleasant warm days of September, many of nature’s creatures initiate their preparations for the coming winter. A happy dividend of this phenomenon is the increased presence of redfish on the flats. There they feed with an abandon that creates fish filled afternoons for the fly fisherman. Typically, large numbers of copper colored fish cover the shallow flats of coastal South Carolina during this time.  They are eager eaters, devouring flies readily. It has been my observation that more of the larger fish can be found at this time as well. I vividly recall afternoons of so many rubric tails wafting gently in the dappled sunlight , that I scarcely could decide in which direction I should cast my gold tinged flies. These large gatherings of my favorite fish suggest the possibility of an ecumenical movement. One might even say an Ecclesiastic fishing phenomenon occurs in October on our flats here in South Carolina. “Praise the Lord! ” continues to be my sole response.

The speaker in Ecclesiastes is called, in Hebrew, “Qoheleth”, translated as “Teacher”. I readily acknowledge that I am anything BUT a scholar, however, I am inclined to disagree with this interpretation. In my mind and life experiences, “Qoheleth” would be much more accurately translated as “Mike”. When first I began this quest to become a fly fisherman and flats man, I knew nothing and could barely cast the line past the tip of the rod. Mike displayed amazing patience and took me on as a special project, hoping to take me from my raw untrained state to that of a real fly fisherman. I remember those times when I stood clumsily at the bow of his jon boat, making even clumsier casts at the redfish arrayed before me in the shallow saltwater of Mike’s favorite redfish flats. Over time, his instructions in every phase of the saltwater fly fishing game ever so gradually transformed me into a reasonably capable fisherman.  It was he who had shared with me the magic time of October on the flats. As a result, my mind has accumulated memories sufficient to sustain me when that time comes that I no longer am capable of a journey to the flats I hold so dear. That time, the end of days in a way, seems to be approaching with ever increasing rapidity.

“A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing”

This fishing year has been a aberration for me. After learning so much from “Qoheleth” about the ways of the redfish, I have achieved a level of fishing success that has left me mostly satisfied. Most trips to the flats have resulted in the capture, and subsequent release, of satisfactory numbers of redfish. I suppose that I had become accustomed to such results. This year has been different. As I write, it is October 5. It is a time of joy, as it is the anniversary of the birth of my elder daughter. But it also is a time of some dismay as I reflect on the fact that I have brought to hand not a single redfish this year. As the Teacher says, there is a time to every purpose. It appears that the purpose this season is to learn another lesson., a time not to gather stones, or in my case redfish, perhaps a time to cast away stones.

My numerous recent trips to the flats have yielded an unusually low number of fish sightings, and even fewer casting opportunities. It seems that the redfish are gathering elsewhere.  I have not been invited to these conventions, and my manifold efforts to crash their parties have uniformly failed. I believe that there is a life lesson in all this. As Qoheleth says:

“A time to tear, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak”

Now is the time for my silence. A time for me to think on all that has been given to me. A time to consider the wonders of God’s creation.  A time to reflect on how precious is the gift of family and friendship. And, yes, a time to give thanks for all the redfish of previous years. It is not a time for remorse and bitterness or frustration.

Epicureas, whose philosophy is easy to like!

Scholars expert in the study of Ecclesiastes feel that Qoheleth may have been familiar with the Greek philosophers Epicureas and Zeno of Citium, founder of the school of Stoicism. These great Greek thinkers held opposing world views. Epicureas promoted the idea that pleasure is the greatest good. That philosophy holds great attraction for me. However,he is careful to point out that overindulgence can lead to loss of pleasure, a point perhaps lost on me. I might argue that that overindulgence in catching, or even merely seeing redfish in abundance on the flats, can never lead to dissatisfaction. However this season, overindulgence remains merely a theoretical possibility for me.

Zeno of Citium, the original Mr. Spock

Zeno, on the other hand, felt that happiness is best derived from shedding desires and passions. This path, he reasoned, permitted decisions to be made with pure, cold logic, leaving emotion and passion out of the equation. Imagine Mr. Spock with a fly rod. For me, life devoid of passion is merely a robotic existence. If ever I find myself machine-like on the flats, casting with mechanical precision, using a fly selected using a handheld computer, and unemotionally setting the hook and landing every fish, it will be time to find a new pastime. Oh, and read some more Ecclesiastes.

I was a young man at the time when “Turn! Turn! Turn!” became a hit by a band called the Byrds. An unpopular war in faraway Vietnam threatened to tear asunder the country. Many young men such as myself were exposed to the risk of involuntary service in the military and possible death on the battlefields of southeast Asia. It was Pete Seeger who set to music the words of Quoheleth. The haunting vocal harmonies were matched by melodious sounds of the twelve string guitars used on the track. I have read that satisfactory recording of the song required 78 takes over several days. Perhaps the most memorable words from the song are those Mr. Seeger added to those of Quoheleth- “I swear it’s not too late”.  I pray that is the case with my redfishing as well.

A Fishing Philosopher, Perhaps?

There has always been an unending debate among politicians, military leaders, philosophers, and other thinkers revolving around the often conflicting concepts of means versus ends.  This interplay seemingly forms the very core of what most refer to as “morality’. Although a detailed discourse that explores completely this basic part of human nature is beyond the scope of the present writings, (not to mention the writer’s mental capacity), it is an interesting point of discussion.

I suppose that I have fancied myself a follower of Kant most of my life. Immanuel Kant , a Prussian born philosopher, felt that it was not enough to merely do the right and good thing, but it was the motive of the actor that determines the true morality of an action. Kant held the position that despite the fact that an action might have a favorable effect on a person or group, if that action is undertaken for dubious or underhanded reasons, it would be immoral.

The opposing view of this ethical dilemma might be a methodology of thinking common in the modern world, Utilitarianism. The Utilitarian would argue that as long as a positive benefit was achieved by the action, it was, by definition, moral and just. This philosophy allows that only the end result matters, not the motive or the means. This concept seeks to disassociate actor from action, emphasizing the greater good over that of the individual.

A commonly used scenario to highlight the basic differences in these ideas is that of the borrower and lender. If a person borrows a sum of money from a friend, and then repays that friend because he understands that repayment of a debt is the right thing to do, Kant would approve. If, instead, the borrower repays the loan in order to make it easier to get a second loan, or even simply to retain his friendship, Kant would be very disappointed. The Utilitarian would respond that both parties were pleased with the outcome, no matter the motives of the borrower. The Utilitarian might say that anything we do is acceptable, so long as no one is injured in the process.

Which argument is correct? Who am I, your humble writer, to say? I suppose that philosophy, like politics or religion, ultimately lies outside the power of even the most craftily worded arguments. After all, how can a person be persuaded that his or her favorite color is actually blue, instead of the green that they have adored since childhood? Such changes in deeply held attitudes and ideas must, of necessity, be internal. This is not to say that alterations of such precepts cannot occur. Clearly, people do make fundamental transformations quite often, but generally not by force of argument.

What has all this heady theorizing to do with the simple act of casting a hook disguised with feathers and tinsel before a fish? Here I am tempted to move closer to that slippery slope of exploring the morality of fishing. But, that broad and controversial topic is best left for another day and another post. I actually began to think a bit about means and ends a week ago when my eighteen foot flats boat took it upon itself to act out during a local fishing trip. I had invited two friends, Ross and Woody, to join me on my boat for a morning of redfishing. I had spent a goodly portion of the preceding day making preparations for the trip. I had gathered and sorted the tackle, arrayed checklist ready, on my work top. Of course, I had inspected the boat and motor, both of 1998 vintage, ahead of deployment. Attaching the cleverly designed garden hose connector on the 130 hP Yamaha permits starting the engine in my driveway, sometimes to the consternation of my neighbors. I will decline entering a discussion of that particular morality for now.  Suffice it to say that despite an initial reluctance to easily begin the combustion process, the Yammie fired up and ran quite smoothly. I repeated this process several times over the course of the day, each subsequent start being accomplished without fanfare or distress.

I launched the boat with a fool’s confidence, assured that my detailed preparations had left nothing to chance. Falsely bolstering my confidence, the Yamaha came to life readily. We motored away from the dock and came up on plane easily once past the no wake zone. Life was now wonderful. The motor propelled us along at some forty mph, and would have easily reached greater velocity had I so commanded. Thoughts of lovely redfish, tails invitingly swaying in the salty air, filled our heads as the Hewes’ hull sliced the water.

Our reverie was rudely interrupted by the buzzing of the overheat warning on the motor. Almost before I could react, silence. The engine had entered auto-shutdown mode to protect itself from the damaging effects of excessive heat. I waited a few seconds and cautiously turned the key. The Yammie cranked immediately.  I saw a steady stream of water emanating from the tell tale, indicating that at least the water pump was functioning. I made the command decision to continue to the flat, not far away by now. Better to be stranded where we could fish, I reasoned.

We reached our destination flat with no further incident,taking care to maintain a low rpm setting. We had an enjoyable morning, and after a few hours, reboarded and headed for the ramp. About half way there, we were treated to a repeat performance by the motor. It restarted quickly and we limped back to port.

My engine behaved badly that morning, like a naughty child who embarrasses his parents in front of guests. I was, in fact, quite embarrassed to have to deal with engine difficulties with my friends Ross and Woody aboard.The decision to take it in for an examination was straightforward and it currently resides at the maintenance facility. I hope to once more take charge of it in the very near future. Hopefully, some behavior modification has taken place and I will find my engine significantly better mannered on my next adventure. My wallet will, unfortunately, be some $1100 lighter when I reattach the trailer to my SUV.

I find myself a bit of a reluctant mariner. Many people find immense pleasure and enjoyment by simply spending a day on a boat, cruising about, often without specific purpose other than finding some fun, and truth be told, a few adult beverages along the way. I do enjoy the sensation of speed and power my boat provides, as well as the simple joy of being in the natural world despite performing the unnatural act of boating. Nonetheless  I occasionally question the entire affair. In the final analysis, the boat is merely a means to an end for me. Flats boats, designed and manufactured specifically for use the the shallow marine environments where I typically fish, commonly come with price tags in the $30,000 range. Are the large sums required for acquiring and maintaining a fishing vessel justifiable? Is all the annoyance associated with boating in and of itself truly worthwhile? Perhaps the most insightful observer might be the wag who noted that the only thing better than having a boat is having a friend who has a boat.

Would Kant find my motives pure and approve? Or am I just another Utilitarian fly fisherman? You decide.

Happy Redfish Hunting Grounds!

Despite the fact that I have been a very serious flats fisherman for all too many years now, I still occasionally find sleeping difficult the night prior to a trip. Even though today’s trip was a short one to the redfish laden flats of McClellanville, I was already into cup number two of coffee at 4 AM. My eyes had sprung open at 3:30 AM and I , like the proverbial child on the night before Christmas, was unable to do the sensible thing and get some more shuteye ahead of the trip. I had spent the better part of the previous day making preparations. I carefully selected my flies, assembled my rods and reels, affixed new leaders to the lines and laid out my gear.  As I did so, I looked lovingly at my paleolithic wading shoes, a faithful old pair of Orvis flats booties. They had served me well for many years. We had shared uncountable days together, wandering over flats from Mexico to Andros to the Keys , and finally back on my home flats here in South Carolina. My mind began to replay some of the wonderful memories of redfish, bonefish, and even permit, whose capture these shoes had made possible. With some remorse, I examined the large rips, tears, and gaping holes in their sides, realizing that they had now made the ultimate sacrifice for my fishing pleasure. I felt, at least a bit, like the hunter who is forced to put down his old, sick hunting dog and beloved companion. I briefly considered using them just once more, for old times sake, but instead walked smartly to the rubbish container and cast them inside. I never looked back.

Right on time at six fifteen, a white SUV , an olive drab flats boat tucked behind it, pulled into the local McDonald’s where Mike and I had arranged to meet. I had arrived early, enjoyed a breakfast of pancakes,then waited in my Tahoe.We had decided the night before to leave my vehicle at a local home improvement store  parking lot in order to facilitate Mike’s return to his office once the fishing day had ended. So, I went ahead in my Tahoe, while Mike followed with the boat. After only a few minutes, my cell phone rang. Mike explained that he had heard a loud bang, and assumed that a trailer tire had blown. When he pulled into a parking lot, he discovered that the flat was actually on his vehicle.  We were determined to catch the morning tide, so elected to switch the boat to my Tahoe, and attend the deflated tire upon our return from the flats in the early afternoon.

The remainder of the trip was uneventful. I had the radio on an oldies station, and we listened to the gravelly voiced Janis Joplin belting out her classic blues tune “Me and Bobby McGee”. “Busted flat in Baton Rouge” she sang as we motored down highway 17, the coastal road reaching ribbon like ahead of us over the monotonously level ground.

Conditions were near ideal that morning. We launched the skiff without incident, and set our course for our favorite flat. There was little wind,  which made the ride quite comfortable. On occasion, the wind can kick up even these inshore waters a bit, resulting in a bone rattling experience in a lightweight flats boat on the journey to the redfish strongholds we fish. Today, however, the water was as flat as the land we had traversed earlier. After a pleasant ride, we found ourselves at what we hoped would once more be redfish nirvana. Mike deposited me at my “Most Likely to Succeed” spot, and sped off to his own. The tide was coming up nicely, and I turned towards the heart of the island, my eyes straining to locate the tell-tale signs of feeding reds- tails wafting gently in the air as they till the soil of the flat in search of crabs, wakes from their movements, or that delightful coppery color glinting in the morning sun. I walked along slowly, my knee creaking and paining despite a significant dose of oral steroids that morning. “At least I can’t walk fast enough to make sufficient noise to frighten the fish off”, I thought as I continued my march. The brand new replacement flats shoes were comfortable enough, but after a while, my feet began to become a bit achy. These shoes are built to protect the wearer’s feet from sharp shells, coral, rocks, and other hazards found in these shallow marine environments. The totally flat soles provide absolutely no support for the angler’s feet, which can easily become sore after prolonged ambulation. “Maybe I’ll see if a thin set of orthotics will fit inside these shoes”, I pondered as I searched.

Soon, I spied a good sized redfish tail writhing slowly in the morning sunlight. A single, large black spot adorned its tail. This was a good sized specimen, weighing as much as eight or nine pounds, I speculated. I slowly made my way to firing range, expecting the fish to work into the taller nearby spartina grass, where my fly would be rendered ineffective. I slowly closed the distance separating angler and fish. As I approached, I realized that I had misjudged the size of this redfish. It now looked much bigger than originally estimated. My best guess was ten to twelve pounds. My heart nearly flatlined as I prepared to make my presentation, so intense was my anticipation. Although it is somewhat rare to find so large a fish in so shallow a spot, my experience has been that they are generally indiscriminate and quite aggressive while feeding so intently. I decided that there was no need to change flies, but made the tactical decision that one final step closer might greatly increase the odds that my fly would land at its intended target- the fish’s feeding zone. My heart now pounding, I lifted my right foot and set it a couple of feet closer to the fish, which continued to happily root the bottom. As I transferred my weight I suddenly found myself falling forward towards the still surface of the saltwater. With acres of flat level earth all around in every direction, my foot found a hole and I fell instantly to both knees. The pain produced by flexing my severely arthritic right knee beyond its disease limited range of motion was exceeded only by the pain of watching that magnificent redfish bolt away towards the safety of the grass and deeper water of a nearby channel.

The Object of my Desire!

Optimism, along with an analgesic pill stowed in my chest pack, allowed the hunt to continue. I slowly trudged around the flat, keeping as close a watch as my sixty year old eyes would allow, for more reds.  Alas, there no more to be seen. I did manage to observe a fairly rare sight on the salt marsh flats of South Carolina, however. As I crossed a shallow pool of water lacking the green spires of spartina grass that cover most of these tidal islands, I saw a somewhat longish slender animal, jet black, slowly swimming towards a nearby hummock. I recall a few years ago when I first spotted one of these creatures, on a flat very near to the present one. I remember asking Mike what in the world a cat was doing way out here. He replied with a chuckle (or was it a snicker?) that this was a mink. “A mink?” I responded. “I thought they lived up north in, maybe Minnesota or Alaska.” He then explained they are native to South Carolina, and often make salt flats their home, along with otters and muskrats. It was another lesson for me about the saltwater flats ecosystem I thought I knew so much about.

A mink out for a swim on the flats

My radio crackled on. It was Mike. He, being by a very great amount, the better fisherman, had spotted a number of redfish. He brought two of these to hand. “It looks like I am running out of fish now. How about you?” he inquired. ” Looks like I am done as well”, I replied, discreetly failing to mention that I had not felt my fly line tighten all morning. “I’ll be there to pick you up in a few minutes. I am headed back to the boat now”. Sure enough, a flats boat appeared from the south shortly thereafter. I climbed aboard and began doffing my vest and stowing my rod as Mike slipped the Mercury into gear and started for the ramp.

As is our custom, we stopped at our favorite restaurant in McClellanville, Graham’s, and enjoyed a sumptous and satisfying seafood lunch. Fortunately for us and other fishermen, the dress code at Graham’s is quite relaxed. They never seem to mind our flats apparel, even if it is still wet. As we ordered, an old friend came through the front door and we exchanged pleasantries, as well as the day’s fishing stories.   It was a wonderful way to complete our day on the flats.

After lunch, we motored on back to the parking lot where we had left Mike’s vehicle that morning. The tire was “flat as a flitter” as my mother frequently says. I always wondered exactly what a “flitter” actually is until I did a little research. It turns out that the word “flitter” is a colloquial term used in the south of England that refers to a pancake.  In the south of the United States, it seems to refer to any flattened object. The spare tire, we discovered upon referring to the owner’s manual, was suspended below the trunk area on a winched up cable. I slid beneath the vehicle, lying flat on my back, and removed the plastic cover from the spare. Mike slowly wound the tire to the ground. After some heavy torsional force had been applied to the lug nuts, we jacked the car up and exchanged the tires. Mike departed to have a new tire installed on the rim of the spare, and I to my nearby home, for a shower and to raise a Kalik to the redfish I missed and the memories of all those past fish that hadn’t gotten away.