Random Casts 1978 No 11

Neil Strother Photo
In the Track of the Glacier
Neil Strother
AN
alpine glacier shrouded the mountain in hundreds offeet of ice.
Slowly, it gouged and ground a track through strata ofrock to the plains.
When at last the ice began to melt , cascades carved frozen canyons,
covering their bottoms with rubble and gravel , redds of trout of the future.
Warmer climes thawed the ground, plants came to the valley.
Cutthroats flashed in the water, the prey of grizzly, osprey, and otter.
In a pond , among the peaks, a fork of the Shoshoni River was born.
In June, millennia later, four anglers walked along the river.
Its banks were brimmed with melt of snow from high country.
Where the canyon widened. gravel bars cut the river into streams.
Within a mile, the channels came together and parted again.
Here were angling waters: riffles . rapids. runs over rocks.
converging currents. eddies. under-cut banks. a log or two .
An old beaver dam blocked the flow of a rivulet .
Here and there a stonefly clung to the alders; nothing broke the surface.
At last. probing lines discovered the lies ofthe cutthroat trout.
The small ones were in the shallows. down among the rocks .
They darted after flies drawn swiftly. just below the surface .
(A hook with hair of a polar bear caused much excitement.)
Where currents met, larger trout lay deeper. just above the bottom.
(They took. quietly. deliberately muddlers and dark nymphs.)
The heavy fish moved little at first, before they began to fight.
It took twenty minutes' and more to land some. Others never were.
If they continued to dog the bottom , pressure shoreward wore them out.
It was another story when they turned and fled downstream.
It the wake of such a one an angler stumbled and splashed.
only to find his line entangled in a brush-jam . fishless .
Wearily trudging along an island of gravel, in midstream .
he was startled to cross the tracks of a moose. still wet .
The great animal had stolen by. unseen, only a few rods away.
Or was it the ghost of one who was there before the ice had gone?
3
CONTENTS
NUMBER ELEVEN
Random Casts is published by
THEODORE GORDON
FLYFISHERS, Inc.
24 East 39 Street
New York, N.Y. 10016
Established 1962
PRESIDENT
Larry Solomon
3
THE TRACK OF THE GLACIER
Neil Strother
5
ROOTS
6
Nick Lyons
8
SECRETARY
Rich ard L. Aronstein
DIRECTORS
Richard L. Aronstein
Ted Baron
Kenn eth E . Bay
Edgar O . Bottler
Stanley Brye r
Peter B. Casgrain
Willia m Claiborne
Rod olphe L. Coigney. M.D .
Stu art Duffield
Donald A. Ecker
Erwin S. Edelman
Clement H . Fullerton
Earl M . Goldberger
Gardner L. Grant
Anthony Ja nsic
Robert N. Johnson
Walter M . Ka ufm an
Edwin Morgens
Joel F . O' Lesky
Joe A. Pisarro
Lou Rossi
Pa ul T. Shultz
John M . Stecz
Henry H . Sternberg
Joa n Stoliar
e.O. Strother. Ph . D .
Prescott A. T olm a n
Barbara P . W orcester
Larry Solomon and Eric Leiser
12
SOMETHING ABOUT FLORIDA SNOBS ...
AND LEAD CORE LINES
Proving that th ere's som e good in everybody and the South can offer
.fisherm en more than grits and corn pone
Jim Bashline
15
THE ALCHEMY OF ANGLING
Lij'e wou ld be dull/or th e angler who doesn 't have his share of minor
disa sters. sm all triumphs and m emories
Joe A. Pisarro
. 20
RAINBOW AT THE END OF THE ROAD TO
HOT CREEK
Som etim es th e best th ing to do a.fier getting advice f rom an
"expert " is tofo.rget it
Bennett J. Mintz
24
WHY NOT A NATIONAL TROUT STAMP?
A suggestion that could help preserve wild trout .fishing and insure
itsJuture
Don Ecker
28
FISHING THE ISLES: EMERALD AND SCEPTERED
A .fish is not always th e m ost m em orable trophy brought back fro m
aJishing trip
Noel J. Holland
33
HANDLE WITH CARE
More than good in tentions are needed to insure survival oI released
.fish
Randy Kaufmann
A LIMITED REPORT
New Z ealand does boast big trout. it's true. But catching th em is no
easier there th an anywhere else
Printed by Rainbow Press
Torrington. Connecticut
Ted Shultz
38
4
SPOT-CASTING THE CADDIS DRY FLY
Th e secret is out - and it cou ld m ean turning those .fish less days
into catch-and-release tim e
35
Copyright © 1978 by Theodore Gor·
don Flyfishers , Inc. Use of any mater·
ial contained herein without prior
written permission strictly prohibited .
ART FLICK IS DRIVING ME CRAZY!
An angler who thought he had a monopo(y on bad lu ck found ou t
dUi'erent(y - and still cam e up em pty
VICE PRESIDENT
Pa ul T. Shultz
TREASU RER
W a lter M . Kaufman
MAY, 1978
THE FLY -LEAF
The Caddis a nd the Angler and Bright Rivers are reviewed
JOE A. PISARRO, EDITOR
Roots
SHOWN on the cover of this
issue of Random Casts is the
woodcut of a "gentleman angler"
that illustrated the first printing
in 1496 of The Treatysse on Fysshnge wyth an Angle. Thought to
have been written about 1421.
the Treatysse is attributed to the
legendary Dame Juliana Berners.
Prioress of Sopwell Nunnery.
near St. Albans. The Treatysse.
which appeared in the second
Bake 0/ St . Albans. is the first
known printing in English of a
work on sport fishing. A fullscale manual on the sport. it included Berner's XII artificial
flies for trout and salmon. which
stand as the ancestors of the
modern trout fl y.
The XII dominated fly fishing for nearly two centuries.
Writers from 1496 to 1620 when
they mentioned flies a t all. sim ply pirated the XII. No original
pattern appeared until 1620. and
then in a footnote to the second
edition of John Dennys Secrets or
A ngling. a "treatise in verse." In
the footnote. William Lawson.
not on ly advocated "angling with
the fly;" he introduced a new fly.
the first since the XII. complete
with dressing and variations to
suit each succeeding month.
Dennys himself makes no mention of flies in h is verses.
With the Lawson exception.
almost nothing in flies appeared
on the half dozen or so books on
angling between the printing of
the Treatysse in 1496 and Izaak
Walton's The Compleat Angler.
Walton
himself contributed
nothing; primarily a bait tisherman. he simply lifted the XI1 for
the first printing of The Compleat Angler in 1653. The major
breakthrough - an event that
liberated flyfishing from the
bonds of the XI1 traditionoccurred 23 years later. in the
fifth edition of Walton-'s classic.
That edition in 1676. added a
Part 2. entitled. "Being Instructions on How to Angle for a
Trout or Grayling in a Clear
Stream." It was contributed by
Wa lton's young friend. Charles
Cotton. a nd not only included
the instructions promised by the
title; it introduced no less than
65 new flies and their dress ings.
Though
Thomas
Barker
(1651) and Robert Venables
(1662) contributed somewhat. it
was Cotton's work that was chiefly responsible for the movement
toward smaller and more imitative flies. Cotton's work has to be
regarded as the first comprehensive writing exclu sively on flyfishing . In that sense. he can be
called the father of modern flyfishing. Following the appearance of "Part 2." other .flyfishers
and writers went about licketysplit inventing flies and methods
to fish them.
The culmination of all that
fervor was the dry fly. Frederic
Halford's "scientific" imitations
and his attempt. largely successful. to impose a dry fly purism.
His Floating Flies and Hall' to
Dress Th em in 1886 sounded the
first call toward institutionalizing the dry fly. and its echoes
haven't died away yet. There are
still those who will fish with
nothing but the dry fly and cast
to the rise on ly.
THE urge to create new patterns remains stronger than ever.
particularly in America. Theodore Gordon's first dry flies were
sent to him by Halford . Gordon
used them as models. but soon
realized they didn't represent the
in sects inhabiting the Catskill
streams he fished. He set about
working from life. though he insisted his patterns were "impressionistic" and mea nt to imitate
groups or families of flies rather
than any specific fly. Probab ly
the most innovative patterns
today are to be found in the
American West. where flyfishing
is not as tradition· bound as it is
in the East. Along the Atlantic
seaboard the old standards like
the Quill Gordon. Light Cahill
(two of Gordon's creations).
Hendrickson. Coachman. Green
Drake. Blue Dun and March
Brown remain favorites. In the
West. where big rivers and big
trout as well as steel head
abound. fly boxes are likely to
contain such patterns as the
Humpy. Hoppers. Sofa Pillow.
monstrous Montana Nymphs .
Muddlers. hair wing Wulffs.
Skykomish Sunrise. Brad's Brat
and Umpqua Specials.
I n the past few years. perhaps
the most significant trend in flies
has been the increased attention
to stone flies and, particularly.
caddis. It's now recognized that
there has been a decline in mayfly populations in many trout
streams due to pollution a nd
other environmental factors.
Many caddis species can and do
flourish in waters mayflies can't
tolerate. The result is caddis
have become increasingly important as trout food. Astute flyfishers realize this and as a consequence. caddis imitations are
taking their place in the fly boxes
of well-equipped anglers. who
are profiting thereby.
Is there no end to it? Probably not. For although. as Arnold
Gingrich noted. "flyfishers. God
knows. are a minority's minor·
ity." they are a searching. seeking. creative minority. The drive
to concoct the infallible. all-purpose fly - dry. wet or nymph undoubtedly will remain as long
as rivers run and trout inhabit
iliem.
0
5
Art Flick is Driving Me Crazy!
Nick Lyons
SOMETIMES I worry about Art Flick.
I worry about his motives. For someone who
fishes as well and as often , he can make
some flaky statements. I always thought
that fly fishing was the cure. that only city
people cracked up from acute trout
neurosis. Last May I wasn 't sure. Art even
claimed he was bringing m e bad luck!
"Water's too cold," said Art. " Doubt if
they'll come today. By Wednesday they
should be on. The water has to warm up a
few degrees. Wednesday for sure."
Wernet but found not one fly.
Then Art called the next Monday night
to say a young neighbor had been on the
Willow Pool that afternoon and "it looked
like it was raining, there
so many fish
rising. " What were they taking? "The kid
didn't know. He just used a Hairwing
Coachman and took a batch of them." He
laughed. "Can you beat that? "
I could not. A "batch of them" on the
The author, who thought he had cornered the bad luck
market discovers others have a piece of the action
It happened like this. Art has a standing
order from me to call when the Hendricksons appear. I am quite mad for Hendricksons. I have had several spectacular days
with this hatch, particularly on the Blue
Kill, where the trout are big and wild, and
when I have not got stone flies on the brain,
or still waters, or snook, or other equally
important issues, I have Hendricksons on
the brain. It is a gorgeous hatch and usually
the first I catch each season: but I had
missed it for two years running. Not this
year. Art promised. He called in late April
to give me a preliminary report: "No sign of
them yet but they should come off any day
now." Could I meet him in two days , a Sunday?
We set a time and place - the Willow
Pool - and I raced upstate like a maniac
and we diddled around with streamers for
two hours in 47° water, without a touch.
Nick Lyons is returning to book publishing
after an absence of several years. He has
authored three angiing books. Bright Rivers
being the current volum e. His "The Seasonable Angler" department appears in The FlyFisherman, where he is listed as a Contributing Editor. Along with all that. he is Professor
of English Literature at New York 's Hunter
College. Now and then he gets to go fishing ,
usually with the results described above.
6
Blue Kill on Hairwing Coachmen, on a day
when Flick had deliberately stayed home? It
shook my Weltanschauung. It was enough
to make me lose faith in everything but
worms and taxes.
Art said he opened one of the fish and
found it stuffed with Hendricksons. Could I
get up the next day?
I could not. It was one of those city days
too tightly knotted to untangle. But would
he give me a report?
"Guess what?" he said when he called
Tuesday night.
"I'll bite," I said. He'd gotten fifty. The
rat could not keep them off his line!
He said: "Skunked!"
"Skunked?" A kid catches a batch of
them on a Hairwing Coachman during the
Hendrickson hatch and the guy who developed the Red Quill gets skunked? Maybe he
was lying. I began to think wildly that there
must be some reason for this, some closet
malice in Flick.
"Nope," he said. "Didn't see a fly,
didn't see a fish. "
"But don't they keep coming once they
start?"
"They're supposed to. That's what the
book says. That's what they've always
done. "
"What do you think?"
•
"I think Thursday," he said. "Can you
make it Thursday? They should be coming
strong by then."
I said I'd make it without fail. There was
still time' to
this disaster.
We reaffirmed the time and the Willow
Pool on Wednesday afternoon, but Art called me back at eleven that night to say:
"We're getting rain. And it's supposed to go
on all night."
"Maybe I shouldn't make the long drive
then."
"Friday would be safer." .
"I'll be there Friday."
I unpacked my gear, called and switched
Friday's commitments to Thursday, tried to
sleep but tossed all night, until Art called
me early the next morning. "Didn't get as
much rain as I thought," he said. "Thought
you still might be able to get up today."
These calls were costing us a fortune and
I still had not caught a fish that year.
Neither had Art. He's Scotch; I'm just poor:
we couldn't afford many more days like this.
No. I could not get up that day. Impossible.
But what a gorgeous day for Hendricksons it
proved: warm, overcast, with a touch of a
drizzle and auguries of an early summer. At
three o'clock, on upper Broadway, I could
feel those little mayflies coming off. Damned. Missed it again. Well, they'd still be on
Friday, for which day the weather predictions were perfect.
FRIDAY broke warm and a bit too
bright, with only a few clouds in a cobalt
sky. I could not wait. I even beat Flick to the
river and was suiting up when he screeched
to a stop just behind me.
"Perfect," he said. " We're finally going
to catch them good and proper. Didn't come
over yesterday so don't know if any flies
came but I'd bet anything on it. You fish the
head of the pool. It's always the best. I'll
work my way downstream, then fish up
when the hatch starts. "
I couldn't wait. I was on the right pool at
the right time with the right flies. The winter
had been long and grey. The season had
taken its sweet time and nearly all my nerves
to begin. But it was here now and I was
ready to meet it.
As usual when I cannot wait, I made a
few mistakes. Sloshing around the lower end
of the Willow Pool, which is heavily silted, I
left in the mud one of my wading rubbersthe expensive kind, with felt and aluminum
cleats, which I had meant to fasten to my
waders with Barge cement, which I had
bought for that precise purpose. No matter.
In another half hour the flies would start
coming. So I sat on the bank and nibbled at
the meat loaf sandwich I had gotten
dre!lched. I ate only the wet meat and
buried the soggy bread. It wasn't bad. I was
watching the water so hard I could have
eaten worms and tasted nothing. What a
gorgeous day! A perfectly splendid day!
In another half hour, when I was midway into my fourth cast, having seen exactly
three Hendricksons come off, flutter , fall to
the surface and float one hundred yards
without harassment, the wind started
coming. It came mightily. It came downstream, along with remarkably swift black
clouds and the distinct threat of a hurricane. I rushed back to shore to put on my
rainjacket, which I had prudently remembered to bring, and in the process ripped my
leader clipper off in deep water. Bending to
retrieve it, a box of dry flies fell into the
drink and I went in over my waders before I
could grab the thing. Later, when the rain
began to pelt the daylights out of me I saw
one fish: it broke off a trailing wet fly while I
was trying - with a distinct touch of madness - to light a cigar.
" Never saw such a day," said Flick,
storming upstream an hour later, finding
me huddled on a muddy bank under some
willows. "Promised everything, delivered
nothing."
"What went wrong? Don't you control
things up here?"
"Must be my bad luck is rubbing off,"
Art said.
"Yours!" I shouted. "You must be mad.
Now my bad luck is even afflicting Flick. Or
his head. Or you're punishing me for some
heinous sin. "
"Don't know about sin," Art said, "but
I could have promised you fish on the Schoharie."
How utterly low can a guy get?
0
7
A Gallery of Caddis
Solomon 's Hair Wing Caddis
len Wright's Skittering Caddis
Quill Wing Caddis
Sid Neff's Hair Wing Caddis
Spot Casting the Caddis Dry Fly
A unique method that has been
a well-kept secret; and
one that could make the difference
on those fishless days
Larry Solomon and Eric Leiser are au thors of
th e landmark book, The Caddis and the
An gler . f rom which this article was adapted.
Solom on ·s articles have appeared in The Fly
Fisherman and oth er periodicals. Leiser is th e
author ()( Fly Tyin g Materials.
8
Larry Solomon and Eric Leiser
THE man standing thigh-deep in the
clean flowing waters did not show his age.
At 70 plus, Ernie was still young enough to
chase trout day after day, regardless of
weather or water conditions, tirelessly. Tirelessly, because at the moment, he seemed to
have a fascination for false-casting his fly
line for an interminable period of time.
I had been standing on the shore for several minutes, observing the flawless manipulation of fly rod and line without once
having seen the fly dropped to the stream.
Dry Fly Patterns
Henryville Special
Vermont Caddis
I,
Delta Wing Caddis
Finally, and with precision, a cast was shot.
The fly had barely touched the stream's surface when the water erupted. Ernie's rod
bent into an arc and the battle was on. After
a brief tussle, the trout, a handsome brown
of some thirteen inches , was brought to net
and duly released. Ernie began working the
rod again: back and forth , back and forth .
It seemed interminable. I couldn't stand it
any longer.
"Hey, Ernie," I shouted above the roar
of the stream, "what are you doing? Trying
to snag swallows!"
Ernie stopped casting and waded to
shore.
"Did you see that nice brown I just
hooked?" he asked.
"Yes, but I thought you foul-hooked
him when you got tired from all that false
casting. What gives with all the arm exercise? You can't possibly be drying your fly
all that time."
"How many fish have you taken today?"
Ernie asked.
Flat Wing Caddis
Two . But what's th at got to do with it?
Fishing's lousy. th at's all. "
"That," Ernie said, grinning, "was the
twenty first I've released today. But, if you
don't like the way I cast .. . " He shrugged his
shoulders and began to walk away.
" Hey, wait a minute," I shouted.
Still grinning, Ernie turned toward me
once more. " Yes?"
"All right, Ernie," I conceded , " you've
made your point. What gives? "
"Simple. In one word ... caddis!"
I stared at him. Ernie was twice my age
and I knew my eyesight was much better
than his. I had seen one or two caddis flies
earlier, but nothing that would in any way
indicate a hatch, or any reason to switch to a
caddis pattern. He must have read my mind.
"Not much of a hatch, is it?"
I didn't answer. At this point I didn't
know whether I was being put on, or what.
Ernie moved over to the bank slope and
put his rod aside.
"Come on, let's sit down. I'm a little
9
tired anyway, from fighting all those trout.
I'll let you in on a little secret. "
I knew Ernie had been fishing caddis
imitations long before most anglers knew
what they were. We were old friends ; whatever I knew about caddis flies I had learned
from him. But this time, he had me completely fooled : I had never before seen him
use the particular technique I'd just witnessed.
"Tell me," Ernie said, " did you notice
any fish rising this morning? "
" Now and again," I answered, " but the
rises were very sporadic. "
"Did you notice anything different
about the rise form itself? "
I thought about it for a moment before I
replied.
"As a matter of fact, now that you mention it, yes, I did notice something. Most of
the rises I saw were a bit on the splashy side,
even noisy at times. "
"Right," Ernie exclaimed. "That should
have told you something. That splashy type
of rise is usually a good indication that a
caddis hatch is taking place. "
"I've got news for you, Ernie. I did try a
caddis pattern, among other things. But,
other than the two fish I took, I got very little interest. I don't know how many times I
floated an imitation right over the exact spot
where I saw the rise. Zilch. "
Ernie nodded. " Sometimes a conventional presentation doesn 't work," he
agreed. " Even if it's executed perfectly.
Sometimes you have to resort to special
techniques. At least, if you want to fish the
dry fly. This is one of those times. "
"But why all the false casting?" I interrupted.
"Well, as a matter of fact, I wasn't false
casting at all, only keeping the line in the air
until I spotted a rising fish . And then, and
this is the most important part, I dropped
my fly into the rise form immediately. I
mean I put that fly right on the trout's
nose!"
"But why," I interjected, "wouldn't the
trout take the fly a second or two later just
as well? Why is the timing so critical? "
Ernie shrugged his shoulders. "Who
knows? The only thing I can tell you is that
it works. " He paused for a moment, deep in
thought. " I do have a theory, though," he
resumed. " A caddis when it emerges is
usually quick. Now, trout love them, but if
they're going to eat any of them, they had
better be just as quick, or quicker. When a
trout chases a caddis pupa, he sometimes
catches it and he sometimes doesn't. In
either case, his momentum often carries him
up through the surface. That's why you see
that splashy rise form . If the trout misses
the emerging pupa, he wiII hang under the
surface for a second or two, searching for
what has just eluded him. If your fly appears
immediately above the fish, his instant reaction is, 'Aha, there he is! ' and he lunges at
the fly. On the other hand , if he succeeds in
nailing the emerger, the reaction is, 'Aha,
another one!' and charges again. In either
case, that trout is going to hit your fly
ninety-nine percent of the time. If ... and I
repeat ... if
put the proper fly over him
immediately;-the moment you see the rise."
I gave Ernie my full attention, knowing that if I just kept my mouth shut and lis-
ADDIS flies belong to the order Trichoptera. They look somewhat like moths,
with their four wings folded in tent shaped
fashion straight along the back when at rest.
Their appearance in flight is erratic, almost
nervous. Though they are a true aquatic insect, once emergence begins, they can't
seem to get out of the water fast enough.
The pupae are strong swimmers and in most
cases rocket to the surface as if they were
jet-propelled. And , in a manner of speaking, they are. The pupa emits gaseous bubbles, which separates the insect from its
pupal shuck and at the same time helps
tened, I was bound to learn something interesting and, more important, useful. Ernie
continued.
"Actually, the fish weren't chasing after
the adult caddis very much. Mostly, they
·were feeding on the emerging pupa. Had
you used a wet fly or a caddis pupa imitation, you would have taken a few more fish .
However, the activity was a bit scattered . So,
as far as I was concerned , there was only one
alternative. "
10
C
Color and Size Variations in Caddis Naturals
BODY
WINGS
.LEGS
HOOK SIZE
A.
Dark green
Brown grey
B.
Med. greyish
olive
Lt. brownish
grey
C.
Lt. yellowish
olive
Ton
Lt. ginger
16 -18
D.
Brown grey
Brownish grey
Med. brown
16 - 18 - 20
E.
Ton
Lt. brown
F.
Charcoal grey
Dark grey
shoot it toward the surface, where it loses no
time in shedding its shuck and becomes airborne almost immediately.
Mayflies, on the other hand, are fairly
slow by comparison. Most species ride the
current for a distance, drying their wings,
before taking to the air. When such a hatch
is in progress, the rise form of the trout is
gentle and deliberate; there is no need for
hurry, since their quarry is also unhurried.
Dry fly fishing with caddis imitations is
not new, of course, but some of the techniques are. In the method just described Ernie's search-and-shoot method - it is
best to use a relatively short line in order to
remain in full control. Thirty feet are usually the maximum which a good angler can
handle effectively and still obtain good results. Long fast rods with light lines are
ideal for this type of fishing. A good example would be an eight foot rod designed for a
5 or 6 weight line. Rod lengths, of course,
will vary with the size of the stream being
fished.
THEN conditions are present which indicate the beginnings of a caddis hatch, or
there is a sporadic hatch of a particular caddis, the angler should position himself in the
stream where the activity is taking place.
The approach should always be made from
a direction that will not disturb the feeding
fish.
Approximately twenty feet of line is set
in motion and a series of false casts begun.
The angler should not only observe the area
where the last trout broke the surface, but
also any other good lies as well.
Bronze dun
. Rusty dun
14 - 16
16 - 18 - 20
14 - 16 - 18
Dark bronze dun
14 - 16 - 18 - 20
As soon as a rise form is detected, the fly
must be delivered at once to the rise. This
may mean snubbing the line short or shooting it a few extra feet to obtain a precise delivery. This in itself can be a bit challenging.
If your imitation is close and if the fly lands
successfully in the proper spot at the precise
moment - watch out! Performed properly,
you can count on a strike just about every
time. Incidentally, the resulting strike will
be sharp, almost visious. You will have to
take care not to overreact and thus break
the fish off. If you are casting across and
down -stream, which is the most advantageous, and the trout does not take your fly, a
short, one-inch twitch of the fly often brings
results. Remember, though, just one inch,
not one foot.
There are many types of caddis imitations for sale; a few are shown in the accompanying photographs. Unlike mayflies, the
patterns are necessarily critical. For your
own fishing, you should be primarily interested in matching the size and color of the
insect hatching at the moment.
The most obvious solution to matching
the hatch would be to have an imitation for
every insect you are likely to encounter.
Many ardent fly fishermen do this. However, for many anglers, especially the novice
and the non-tiers, this could be a momumental task. Therefore, in an attempt to
simplify the problem a bit, accompanying
this article is a chart listing six variations of
color in several sizes representing about
75% of the naturals you may run into across
the country. Of course, you should include
any others important in your own area. 0
11
I
T has become a generally recognized
fact that South Florida fishermen are tackle
snobs. This snobbery is abundantly manifested in the realm of flyfishing. When the
gospel of the long rod first fell upon the sun
belt, the Rebel rodsmen relied heavily on
Northeast gear and expertise. They grudgingly accepted Yankee methods simply because they had no flyfishing history.
It was quickly discovered however, that
tackle suitable for Atlantic salmon fishing
was sorely lacking in stamina when all-day
pounding in saline solution was required.
With help from a few pseudo-Yankees, the
Floridians learned fast and set about some
20 years ago to produce their own special
fly-rod equipment. Oh, there was some stuff
down there before that, but the really big
developments are fairly recent. Goodies like
Fin-Nor, Seam aster and Emory reels are
Florida-founded. Fly rods capable of subd uing behemoths like the Queen Mary are
now standard items in the Southern tackle '
shops. Tying salt water flies has been rapidly transformed from the crude craft in once
was into a reasonably identifiable specialty.
And leaders and knots! Jesus! You'd think
that the red necks invented monofilament.
Their Bimini Twists and Albrights and
Rhodes loop knots must be learned by any
South Floridian worth his double haul.
With painful regret, we must admit that the
rednecks have indeed added some things of
value to the flyfishing world.
A number of breakthroughs, invented or
otherwise, perfected by the confederate
cadre of flyrodders have no use on trout
streams and salmon rivers. But many of
them do. In several cases it's our blind reaction to anything foreign that prevents us
from trying new ideas. What is happening
now is sort of double reverse snobbery. The
Florida flyrodder considers trout and salmon beneath the dignity of his 12 weight
Lamiglas and giant Seamaster.
"I mean now, really, those little eightinch trout don't pull very hard, do they?"
And, "how could you possibly get enough
backing on that Hardy Princess to handle a
bonefish?" And, "when you set the hook in
a tarpon you'd better cross his eye or you
ain't even gonna get past the barb" and on
and on.
The followers of those creatures which
sport adipose fins counter with arched eyebrows and things like, "yes, but a bonefish
doesn't jump." And, "I fish for fun not total
exhaustion ... a tarpon battle can go on for
hours!" And, "fishing in salt water is so
messy, you know .. . " And of course, there
are the Northern poets who go on and on
still more about the "pastoral pleasures of
angling for spotted species whilst communing with nature." This is all good fun and
I'll never be the one to decide which cow the
old lady ought to kiss, since I enjoy any kind
of fishing except coho snagging.
Jim Bashline
Something About ... Florida Snobs
and Lead Core Line
12
· THE standout contribution from
Miami to the fly fishermen of the world has
been the nail knot and its variations. Prior
to that handy little invention leaders were
attached to fly lines by all sorts of poor connections. The Bimini Twist and other creaof.southern origin have limited applications m fresh-water fly-fishing. (But they
Florida fishermen can tie you up in
knots; but now and again, they do
come up with something useful
are exceedingly useful when spinning and
plug casting.) There is another fairly recent
development from southern climes that bids
well to be another "nail knot" in terms of
fishing usefulness. That is, the addition of a
hunk oflead core line as a sinker for serious
nymphing, streamering or weighted wet-fly
dunking.
Sinking lines have been highly touted in
outdoor periodicals of late and no serious
angler can question their usefulness. But
there are times that even the most rapidly
sinking fly line cannot put the fly down
where the action is. The tarpon in many
Central American rivers hang close to the
bottom during their upstream movements.
For several years, anglers visiting those
waters did their best work with sunken lures
retrieved with spinning or bait casting gear.
The flyrodders didn't do well even with sinking lines. Several Floridians lay claim to
being the first to try it, so I won't mention
JiI? Bashline became the most proficient
after-dark trout fish erman in Potter County.
then wrote the book. Night Fishing for Trout.
has. ranged over most of North Am erica
".'lth hiS tack!e. bag. digging out .fishing tips
.for readers oJ hiS outdoor column in The Philadelphia Bulletin and as Field Editor ofField
& Stream.
.
names but the idea of attaching a section of
lead core trolling line to the end of some
level fly line solved the matter overnight.
Tarpon in deeper water in Florida and at
such places as Casa Mar in Costa Rica are
not particularly difficult to seduce if one can
get the fly to their feeding depth. That
achieved, it's then a matter of sticking the
in above the barb and hanging on
whtle the fish does his thing. Bill Barnes, the
kingpin at Casa Mar has it down to a rote
operation. Attach 18 feet of 27 pound test,
lead core to the end of a level fly line and
drop the whole mess into the water. (Casting
lead core is, well ... it's different.) Hold the
rod and occasionally strip in a little line and
before long, a tarpon will eat it. No kidding
... it's that easy.
And now, we'll get to the point. That
being, that the Northeastern fly rodder and
fly rodders anywhere for that matter can
utilize a bit of lead core line from
to
time. One of those times is when cold water
trout are doing most of their looking on or
near the bottom. You can "Leisenring lift"
all you want to when the water is not warm
enough to cause nymphs .to rise from the
bottom and chances are, you won't catch
many trout. Trout are phlegmatic when cool
water surrounds them and they don't want
to move far to intercept food. They manage
to get.
good things to eat by simply
sele-.::tmg a lme and waiting for the current
to deliver. They will sometimes stick close to
the bottom of what appears to be a regular
torrent. But ... as we all know, the velocity of
bottom water is frequently not as fast as it is
on the surface. But I am not about to offer a
lesson in hydraulics, nor could I. What I
?ave discovered over the past three seasons
is that a three or four foot section of lead
core line is a much better additive than
wrapar?und sinkers or heaven forbid, split
shot .. Smkers hanging on the leader at any
10catlOn cause strange things to happen to
each cast, most of them bad. A short section
of lead core line casts like a bullet and sinks
like one. It also has the ability to cause the
leader, a short one, to glide smoothly along
the bottom ,,:ithout the bump-bump-bump,
hung-up-agam routine.
13
FINDING out exactly how much lead
core line is needed in a particular situation
will require some experimentation but once
the magic amount is discovered, it works
like a charm. Attach the lead core material
to the fly line via the flytying bobbin routine. If you haven't done this or seen it done,
ask a buddy. It takes some coordination to
air-spin the bobbin around the two lines but
it's the best way I know. A nicely done splice
coated with Pliobond slips through the
guides smoothly. Attach the leader to the
lead core with an Albright knot or simply
remove the lead core by pinching the lead
and stripping it out, and then tie two surgeon's loops. By using the interlocking
loops, it's easy to change lengths of lead
core.
A number of companies make lead core
line and some of them are vinyl coated.
Thus coated, the material slips through the
guides even better if long lengths of lead
core must be used. This may be the case in
some rivers, notably the Delaware during
the shad run. I used about 12 feet of lead
core at the famous Lackawaxen Pool last
year and took as many shad as did the dart
casters.
No fly rod outfit under seven weight will
handle more than about eight feet of lead
core without rebelling. Six feet is probably
maximum. Nine to 12 weight sticks can
handle more, but with all fly rods a bit of
practice is necessary before one stops beating himself to death. Lead core fly line is
heavy. It doesn't loft back and forth in
graceful curves 'as does a floating line. Instead, it rockets back and forth and can
deliver a mighty blow to the back of the
head. Speed up the timing and don't try
many false casts. It's better not to try any at
all. Simply back cast and ... shoot. Hold the
rod away from your body and don't try for
tight overhead loops. Forget style. Just concentrate on getting the line out to the approximate place you want it to drop and let
the sinking lead core do the rest.
Dry fly purists will cough and gag at the
mention of lead core line. Float a drag-free
Jassid it won't; but for effective spring and
high water trouting and, of course, for shad,
tarpon, and ass0rted deep-water swimmers,
it's another stunt that the complete angler
might consider adding to his repertory. 0
The Alchemy of Angling
Joe A. Pisarro
WHEN Izaak Walton declared in The
Compleat Angler that angling was "The
Contemplative Man's Recreation," he
tipped his hand to the world that he was no
flyfisherman. Every
knows damn well that flyfishing IS anythmg
but a contemplative pastime: it is sheer
manual labor and , fraught with hazards.
The long-rod devotee spends his day in a
stream fighting headstrong currents, struggling for balance on a paving of slime-coated rocks and tripping over treacherous under-water obstacles, all the while strongarming cast after cast after cast till his arm
becomes paralyzed with fatigue and his eyes
bleary from the strain of searching out lies,
holds, feeding stations and the trout he
prays inhabit them.
On any day astream trout may be scarce
but black flies are always in abundance, lapping up whatever concoction the
smeared over himself in the delUSion It Will
protect him. A
of a day i.n pursuit
of trout is a diary of disaster: dunkmgs, torn
waders, lost flies and shredded leaders,
strings and welts from various insects,
Joe A. Pisarro. over th e years. has increased
his (In gling vocabulary. !f'
his ang ling
skills. N everth eless. he remall1s as ./lrm(v
hooked on
as th e 111 0st talen ted
troLit-taker in th e busin ess.
sprained ankles or smashed
and
the
total exhaustion. Each day
angler swearing
he's had. It with the
whole misbegotten vice and vowmg to chuck
the vile practice once and for all, a resolve
he firmly holds fast to until he reaches
home, when he immediately begins planning the next trip.
The magic of flyfishing
is a compound of minor disasters,
small triumphs and ,
most of all, memories
The truth is an angler is a collector of injustices and he's never completely
in a miserable sort of way - unless he IS accumulating woes. His are the injustices of
trout water that is too high, or too low or too
warm· of streams that are overpopulated
with fishermen and underpopulated with
trout; of unpeopled waters too remote for
him to get to. And he revels in the agony of
the most galling injustices of all: the constant snubbing of his best flies by the trout
and the total failure of his most shrewdly devised stream strategy.
Collecting by anglers is by no means limited to amassing injustices; it's a recognized
branch of the sport and the collectibles
15
range all the way from tackle to autographed flies and custom-crafted hobnailed, kangaroo leather wading brogues.
But collecting can be fraught with hazard; it
can lead to possessions and possessions can
become a trap: they end up owning you.
Fortunately, few of my possessions are
material - tackle and such like. They
figure only peripherally among my caredabout accumulations - a fly rod or two, a
tiny nickel-plated antique reel, a few cherished books and a half-dozen exquisitely
tied salmon flies from Charles DeFeo, handsomely framed and hanging on my office
wall to remind me that man is capable of
creating something nobler than ledger columns.
Yet, even those are not my most prized
possessions. What I treasure most are the
mental memorabilia of angling - recollections, reminiscences, the ghosts of fishing
trips past; assets no insurance company in
its right corporate mind would underwrite.
Who would issue a policy covefing my small
triumphs astream? Or the mind picture of a
pre-dawn journey in the company of fishing
companions, trout talk slatting back and
forth in the car?
THE
fishing experience is an alchemy
that transforms mundane events into the
stuff of memories. An all-night diner becomes a landmark in the geography of the
mind: cast-iron griddle cakes and leathery
home-fries are recalled as soul food; reverie
replays an ambience that was never there.
You remember a counter lined with fishermen in fly-bedecked felt hats under sputtering fluorescents , their eyes as grainy as
yours, stirring coffee in a reel-winding
rhythm, mentally assessing the day's hopes
and possibilities. Magically, the mind transforms a grubby, neon-gaudy beanery into a
bark-sided cabin on the bank of a dream
stream where rising trout dimple the surface
like raindrops. That's what fishing is about
- part reality, part fantasy, and for most of
us in about the same proportion as the
Maine guide's recipe for
one rabbit, one horse.
It's many years since I owned a creel and
I never did get around to buying a weighing
16
scale. What I carry away from a stream requires neither basket nor balance. It's true
you can't hook a spring scale to a memory
and heft it for poundage; but then, dreams
are equally weightless, and who would deny
that dreams are essential paraphernaila for
fishermen?
Dreams have a way of turning into
memories.
One day in early April I fished the Little
Beaverkill below the covered bridge at the
State campsite. The day was raw, windswept, with water and air temperatures trying to push out the bottom of the thermometer. An occasional sluicing of sleet rattled
through the brown , leafless trees and some
of it found its way down my neck. The
stream was turgid and at bank level, the
roily brown water heavy with run-off silt. It
was the kind of day when any degree of
sanity was a definite hindrance and the
rewards were commensurate with the conditions.
When I c10m ped back to the parking
area, weary and bone-chiIled, I found two
fishermen at the car next to mine. After
we'd compared notes - they'd taken a few
17
small hatchery-plants on deep-fished
nymphs; I hadn't mussed a fly - one of
them walked to the rear of the car and
raised the trunk lid. He asked me if I'd like
a drink and when I said yes, he reached in
and pulled out a brown leather-covered
thick book that looked like a Bible.
Good Lord, I thought, scripture before
the schnaaps?
But no, the book split open and inside
two bottles nestled on one side while silver
drinking cups were recessed into the other
half. The scotch was smooth and warming
and I thought the whole production was
pretty classy. I said so to my friend Bill
Ellett when I described the incident to him
later. He made no comment, and the incident passed from my mind.
But not, apparently, from Bill's. In midJune that year, Bill and I were camped on
the shore of Lake Francis in northern New
Hampshire for a week of fishing the Connecticut River, Indian and Perry streams
and some of the small ponds that dot that
remote region just south of the Canadian
border. We got lucky the first morning and
returned to camp with enough trout for
lunch. We pan-fried the fish and set them
out on a rickety table we'd hammered together from weathered boards salvaged
from the lake shore. I sat down and reached
for a share of the crisply cooked trout, but
Bill said to wait a minute. He went over to
the car and returned with two wine goblets,
which he placed OD the table. Then he
reached into the ice chest and brought out a
chilled bottle of vintage Pinot Chardonnay,
uncorked it and poured a few drops into the
glass near me. In total astonishment, I
picked up the glass, sipped and nodded approval, after which he filled my glass and
then his. As he sat down, he muttered, with
some vehemence, I thought, "That for your
scotch from a phony Bible!"
It remains a warming memory, more so
than any trout caught or lost that week.
ACTUALLY, the companionable 'cup
has an honored place in angling tradition
reaching back to Izaak Walton's barley
wine poured by singing milk-maids, and fig-
18
ures frequently in fishing memorabilia. In
his classic Fishless Days, Angling Nights,
Sparse Grey Hackle describes how he and
the late Dick Hunt had to earn the right to
enjoy their martinis by "diligent angling
and demonstration of (our) knowledgeability. "
Reading that reminded me of an occasion in which martinis figured, though luckily no such strictures were attached else I
would have gone dry.
Norm Miller belonged to a club that
leased a lovely stretch of the South Branch
of the Raritan River, a river I have a special
attachment for, particularly the section that
includes the Ken Lockwood Gorge. It was
the river of my youth, where I first learned
about flyfishing and remains in my mind the
finest trout stream in New Jersey. Norm's
club controlled the stretch just below the
Gorge.
For a number of years, until Norm passed away, several of us would be his guests on
the river at the time of the Hendrickson
hatches. On those occasions Norm insisted
on providing the lunch, aiways an elegant
affair complete with hors d'oeuvres and
martini makings. After an always pleasurable and often productive morning on the
boulder-strewn, hemlock-bordered river,
we'd gather at a streamside picnic table for
the noon ritual. Norm would layout herring
in wine sauce and other delicacies. Then he
would bring frosted martini glasses and the
Beefeater and Cinzano out of the ice cooler
and set in motion the chemistry that transformed juniper juice and vermouth into nectar, a bit of alchemy in itself.
What bothered me the first time I was a
member of the party was the lack of lemon
peel or olives. Norm, meticulous in preparations to the point of snowy linen napery,
apologized for the oversight but it was my
display of an ingenuity I rarely apply on a
trout stream that averted disaster. I
searched out some wild scallions and after
trimming off roots and stems, peeled the
tiny bulbs and dropped them into our
glasses. Dick Grossenbach, a certified martini connoisseur, proclaimed then eminently
passable Gibsons. As a small triumph, I regard that as one of my better achievements,
as well as a memory to be cherished.
Memories can make up a curious collec-
tion. Big trout landed or lost are easy to remember; exotic and far-away waters are
readily called to mind , yet they don't necessarily make up the fondest recollections or
warmest memories. Often, it's the recall of a
small, obscure incident in which fish or even
the fishing itself figures in only peripherally
- a suggestion that calls into question the
very rationality of the sport.
There is no rationale for fishing, nor do I
believe one is needed. Fishing is its own justification. Fishing works a strange and wonderful alchemy that transmutes the angler
and his world. He seeks gold, but not cold,
lifeless metal. What he searches for is the
living, flowing gold of a river that reflects
the glory of a sunset and provides sanctuary
for vibrant, pulsating trout; that incubates
one of Nature's never-ending marvels, the
evening hatch and its concomitant dance of
life as Mayflies perform the ritual of procreation over the stream's surface.
To the angler, running water sparkling
in the morning sun's first beams is a wondrous gift; a life-sustaining habitat for a
myriad of curious creatures, each related to
the other in a symbiosis that could teach
man much, and which he would do well to
emulate.
And as long as the alchemy of angling
continues to work its magic, anglers will go
on collecting not material possessions, but
newly minted memories stamp.ed from
golden days astream.
D
19
Rainbow at the End
of the Road to Hot Creek
A grain of salt - about basketball size - is sometimes
useful when listening to the advice of an "expert"
Bennett J. Mintz
THE road from Los Angeles to Hot
Creek Ranch in the Sierra passes by some of
the most spectacular scenery in the continental United States. It's about 300 miles
from the Greater Los Angeles Basin - as
it's termed by the nightly TV weather forecasters - to the Sierra paradise .
One passes the old Tropico Gold Mine
and the town of Mojave. Mojave. The very
name smacks of prospectors with laden
burros and visions of untold wealth. No
doubt Fred C. Dobbs knew Mojave well.
The road passes Red Rock Canyon, where
more than 10,000,000 Indians died. All of
them in Western movies. The road passes
Mt. Whitney; and the side road that leads to
the northwest entrance to Death Valley.
Highway 39S skirts the Alabama Hills,
much older than the Sierra.
Bennett J. Mintz has cast his Jlies on many
waters since the event he describes in this article. A transplanted native of New Jersey. _he
runs a public relations agency in Los Angeles.
which serves as a base Jor frequent sorties to
.fishing waters all over the Pacific Coast. the
Sierra and Rocky Mountains., His angling
writings have appeared in a number of outdoor publications.
20
Not far out of the Greater Los Angeles
Basin the air begins to clear. The crumpled
bits of fluff and blood on the road give mute
testimony to the fact that jackrabbits and
automobiles don't mix.
The desert is scarred. It's scarred from
mines, and men with crackpot ideas. It's
been thrashed by motorcycles and 4X drive
vehicles whose owners feel they have an inalienable right to dig ruts into the side of a
hill it took Mother Nature a million years to
carve.
But it's a pleasant 300 mile drive (more
pleasant before the SS miles per hour speed
limit) with plenty to see and lots to think
about. It's seldom someone doesn't say
something like, " ... God, I mean when you
think of covered wagons ... " That remark
is usually made with the air conditioner
cranked full and the speedometer pushing
80.
But I wasn't thinking of movie Indians or dead jackrabbits ; I didn't consider the
plight of the pioneer or the height of Mt .
Whitney or the lost gold mines that dotted
the Mojave desert or the beasts. that roamed
the Alabamas a zillion or so years ago .
My mind was fixed on one subject and
one subject alone: My ability to present a
dry fly to a fish while I was a guest on the
Hot Creek Ranch and not make a fool of
myself, and perhaps catch some fish as weII.
I
had fished aII my life. But I had only
taken up flyfishing three or four years
earlier and had only become proficient at
the game within the past year. It must have
been in 1965. Either 1964 or '65. No matter.
During a hundred or so previous trips to
the Sierra, I had spin-fished the Owens and
Lake Crowley and various other creeks,
streams, rivers and lakes. But this was a
special occasion. I was finaIIy going to Hot
Creek Ranch.
Hot Creek Ranch: Old , old cabins with
floors stained by whisky spilled by Zane
Grey; tables chewed up by the grip of a
thousand tying vises; rod racks that had '
held Paynes and Garrisons and Leonards;
books that had been thumbed by some of
the world's greatest anglers.
A fishing club I belonged to at that time
Jordan Lagman Photo
had a speaker describe the Ranch via slides
and charts the previous winter.
He's a marvelous caster and an inventive
tyer and has caught some monster trout
from Hot Creek and other waters, but that
night he was the epitome of the effete Eastern snob flyfisher. And he wasn't even from
the East.
He described in minute detail the preparation of the 16-foot leader and the addition of the 18 to 24-foot tippet. During the
question and answer period that foIIowed,
he at:knowledged that the tippet might be
trimmed to 10 or 15-feet if one is unable to
the preferred length.
To heII with him; I'd handle a 16-foot
leader and 30-feet of tippet .
He told of the flies needed. One might
get away with a #20 if the trout were on a
binge, but for continued and lasting success, one must fish with a #24 or #28, which
is to be put upon the water with the gentleness of a baby's sigh. And the fly is to be administered via the pile cast - a method of
The snow-mantled Sierra tower over Hot
Creek Ranch, the stream and the moonscape-like sage brush flats through which
it meanders. This is dry fly only territory
and the creek harbors a large population
of mighty trout.
\.
Dwarfed by majestic Sierra peaks, a fisherman tries his luck on one of the "elbow" pools. The placidappearing surface disguises at least twelve different currents and divergent flows. Drag-free floats
are hard to come by in such pools.
deliverance that caIls for the line to be driven into the water with the leader piling up
and then paying out the lure slowly into the
current as the gossamer tippet uncurled.
Could I do that? HeIl, yes. I'd been flyfishing for a couple of seasons already ,
hadn't I?
Could my eyes keep track of a #24 sedge
in the midst of debris and foam and riffles
of wind and a cloud of naturals? It goes
without saying.
The foIlowing May I caIled Hot Creek
Ranch . Uh, you don't know me, but I'm a
mem ber of the Wilderness Fly Fishers and,
uh, I'd like to know if you happen to have
an opening for next weekend? The manager
informed me that the Ranch had been
booked for Memorial Day weekend for a
year in advance, but that if I wanted to be
put on the waiting list . .. wait a minute , the
guy on the other line just canceIled , "Mr.
Mintz, you're in luck!"
I scarcely saw the road and none of the
scenery as we drove to Hot Creek. A thousand times I rehearsed. Yes, thank you, it is
a lovely trophy. It's the only one I kept and I
22
did that because I need another mount for
the office. Much trouble? Oh, after the first
hour I began to fear the hook would work
out, but it's amazing the kind of bite you get
with a #24. Or was it the #28? Wind knots?
Pish-tish. Why would one get a wind knot in
a 16-foot leader and an i8-foot tippet during a spring blizzard?
It was mid-afternoon by .t he time I arrived at the Ranch. The flag atop the flagpole stood starched in the breeze. I smiled
inwardly. It will make the game a bit more
interesting, I thought. Not a soul - not one
person - fished. They were all about the
cabins and lawn chatting. In general , one
hand was thrust deep into a pocket while the
other held a glass of Wild Turkey or Haig &
Haig Pinch. They eyed me as I unpacked ,
but probably thought little of my presence
until I puIled on boots, fumbled some line
through the guides of my Phillipson rod,
bent a sedge into position and walked to the
bank. I crossed the little footbridge, opened
the cattle gate and walked a hundred yards
or so downstream.
Jordan Lagman Photo
i
1
THE breeze - howling gale, more like
it - would only allow me to put my fly in my
hat, my ear, my neck or deep into my new
down jacket. I was unable to strike the
water, much less accom plish the pile cast.
• I began to understand why the others
had sought refuge by taking to drink . Well ,
perhaps a few more tries as if to appear to
get the kinks out and I'll join them. Just as I
attempted again to drive the line into the
water, a particularly savage gust caught the
line, whipped it across my face and wrapped
the tippet and the fly forevermore into a
stand of sagebrush. Well, I thought, that's
reason enough to quit.
Next morning the flag hung limp. It was
to be my day of days.
A few fishermen were on the stream already, but most stood on their porch making last-minute changes in tactics and sipping coffee. I crossed the bridge and opened
the cattle gate and walked downstream to
where most of the fishers seemed headed.
They must know something, and I didn't
want to commit a gaffe by casting to the
wrong spot. As I walked the bank, I
spooked giant trout by the score; I looked
into pools to see trout swirl and break water .
Yes, it was to be my day.
So I began to cast. Drive the line in. Pile
the leader. The fly will pull off and downstream the gaping jaws of a giant brown
trout will take it into camp. I had read my
Marinaro after all.
I caught flies on the opposite bank and I
caught them on bits of weeds . I broke them
off on mesquite and on sagebrush. I snapped them on the backcast and I popped
them on the undercut banks. At one point I
honestly think I lost a fly in the wing of a
passing bird.
On occasion an angler would pass me.
They'd be returning to their cabin for lunch
or perhaps a call of nature or whatever.
"Howya doin'?" I'd ask (afraid to hear their
answer) and always the answer would be
roughly the same. "Well, I got 32 already,
but I lost that big sum bitch under the alder
tree." A woman came along. At that time
flyfisherpersons were seen even less frequently than today. "Had a mar-r-r-rvelous
morning," she gushed, "caught SO including this beauty (she showed me the beauty)
we're having for dinner ." I agreed the trout
certainly was big enough for dinner for all of
them.
In response to their question, I'd reply,
"oh, just fine ... just fine."
What I meant by that was I hadn't
drowned.
By I or 1 :30 the wind came up . It made
the previous day's breeze seem like the effect of a dime store fan . This was a real
wiml. The water was whipped to a froth
while clouds of earth and debris found their
way to the stream. I stayed until it was unbearable - maybe 2:30 - before quitting. I
was the last fisher left on the stream. And, I
had not caught a fish.
At dusk the wind stopped as suddenly as
it had started and I went out not so much to
try to catch a fish - I knew that was
hopeless but to salvage a bit of dignity.
That's when I ran into this guy I'd seen a
few times at club meetings.
"Hey, Howya doin'?" he asked. "Well.
not so hot," I admitted. "Whatsa trouble?"
he wanted to know.
I explained that I really couldn't cast
30-feet of leader and tippet. that I couldn't
see size 24 flies and the fact of the matter
was I hadn't caught a fish all day.
"Hell," he said, "nobody uses that kind
of stuff up here except for old So and So and
he's a nut." I told my new-found friend that
Mr. So and So had been the speaker at our
club meeting and I was just following his
advice.
"Ah, you didn't believe all that bull. did
you?" he asked. "Well. uh," I admitted "I
found much of the information useful."
Deftly he cut my leader back to to-feet,
snipped all but 30 inches or so from the tippet and tied on a #14 Light Cahill. Then he
dipped the fly in a special floatant that he
and some of the other guys made and pointed me toward a productive run.
I cast and I actually watched the fly. I
saw it bob along in what I thought was a
damn good drift and I guess the trout
thought so, too, because he came up and inhaled it.
Next morning a guy asked me how I was
doing. "Not bad," I said. "I got 40."
0
23
Why Not a National Trout Stamp?
How can we guarantee the future of wild trout fishing?
Here's one suggestion that could help
Don Ecker
each passing year, the inventory
of quality trout waters in our country grows
smaller. Once-blue-ribbon streams decline
in numbers in the west, and even wilderness
ponds in the Adirondacks suffer from highly
acidic rainfalls.
Land development, destructive logging
practices, water diversion projects, dams,
channelization, acid mine drainage, all
these and more threaten trout waters across
our land.
The intense interest in conservation that
swept across the public conscience a few
years ago, has waned with the growing fears
of energy crunch, unemployment, inflation, and what it thought of as, "the greater
good for the vast majority."
Other, more insidious perils wait in the
wings. The New Jersey gambling experiment
in Atlantic City is being watched with great
interest by those who would like to develop a
Don Ecker is Outdoor columnist for the
B ergen Evening Record and was a con'tributor
to The Stream Conservationist's Handbook ,
He has long been heavily involved in conservation affairs and is an active officer or
m ember of several conservation organizations,
24
Las Vegas in the Catskills. Gambling interests are also casting a lascivious glance at
several prime areas in Pennsylvania such as
the Poconos. The- effect of such massive
magnetic tourist developments on the fragile trout waters in these regions could spel\
total disaster for what remains of our precious angling resource.
Sure, we'd fight like hell! Groups like
Theodore Gordon Flyfishers, Federation of
Fly Fishermen, TROUT Unlimited, American League of Anglers, etc., would mount a
life-and-death battle to save our trout
waters. But, against the massive, well-financed forces of destruction, our efforts
might have only temporary effect. Eventually, as in so many other cases, the victory
would belong to the most powerful.
Is the fate of our trout fishing already
sealed? Are we powerless to protect our
fishing heritage? Clearing the answer is no.
There are ways to prepare for the worst, and
one of the most promising is land and water
acquisition.
The Nature Conservancy has led the way
in this highly effective form of conservation.
The Conservancy has purchased or received
donations of thousands of acres of unique
wilderness lands and waters. It depends on
public donations to derive the money to
carry on its work.
Last year, the Conservancy successfully
acquired a significant portion of Silver
Creek in Idaho, a super blue-ribbon wild
trout stream.
When I met with Conservancy officials
in.Washington, D.C. last summer, they told
me that the major portion of the money they
raised for the Silver Creek project came
from members of angling conservation
groups like TROUT Unlimited and Federation of .Fly Fishermen.
It thus has been shown, that trout
anglers across the country are willing to pay
for the permanent protection of their nation's best trout waters. If this is so, then
why shouldn't there be an annual national
trout conservation stamp?
THERE is certainly sufficient precedent for the sale of conservation stamps to
the sporting public. For years, American
waterfowl hunters have participated in such
a program, with enormous impact on the
waterfowl conservation effort. The sale of
the Federal Migratory Bird Hunting and
Conservation Stamp, popularly known as
the "duck stamp," has produced more than
$176 million since 1934.
Most of the money has gone toward the
acquisition of prime waterfowl habitat.
More than two million acres have been
protected through this program since it began. Current figures show that each year,
over 2.4 million people pay nearly $12 million for duck stamps at $5.00 a clip. Sure,
you say, the program is a mandatory tax,
imposed and administered by the Federal
Government. But, consider this: Many duck
stamp buyers purchase more than one duck
stamp and for very good reasons.
Beside helping with the conservation
work, stamp purchasers are also making an
investment. If bought at time of issue, a full
collection of all the duck stamps issued to
date would have cost $104. Such a complete
collection, in mint condition, has a present
collector's market-value of more than
$1700. Some collector's believe that the
price could go much higher in a-fe.w years.
There are also success stories concerning
voluntary conservation stamp sales. Taking
a page from the waterfowler's book, the
National Wild Turkey Federation began
issuing an annual Wild Turkey Stamp in
1976. Sale of these potentially collectible
stamps has raised a considerable amount of
money for the restoration, lease, purchase,
or enhancement of wild turkey habitat, and
for wild turkey research and education.
The 1976 Turkey Stamp sale raised over
$120,000, and among other things resulted
in the- founding of a 6,000 acre wild .turkey
restoration area in Georgia. The 1977 Wild
Turkey Stamp was published in an edition
of 50,000 at $3.00 per stamp.
There are various state programs that
utilize wildlife stamps to support management and conservation programs. In New
Jersey, funds for upland bird management
are produced each year through the sale of
special Woodcock Hunting Stamps and the
Pheasant and Quail Stamp.
In South Dakota, once billed as the .
"Pheasant Capital of the World," a $5.00
pheasant-restoration stamp program has
begun.
This program offers .hunters and
managers hope for bringing back at least a
part of their state's once famous pheasant
population. Eighteen or twenty years ago,
the South Dakota pheasant flock was estimated at more than 11 million birds. Bag
limits were as high as 10 per day. But, those
were the days before the advent of the giantsized farms and the so-called clean farming
methods. Large-scale mechanized farming
destroyed much of the necessary nesting and
winter cover so vital to pheasant survival
and reproduction. The South Dakota pheasant population declined steadily.
The new pheasant stamp program,
started in 1977, could go a long way toward
reversing that trend. State game officials
hope to raise about $450,000 a year from
stamp sales, with 80 percent of the money
used for leasing lands for nesting and the remainder for restocking and habitat security . .
The leasing program gives farmers $5.00
per acre for the cost of cover-crop seed such
as sweet clover, alfalfa, and wheat grass,
and $20 an acre for the next two years to
leave the land idle.
The enthusiasm of hunters for the plan
25
is more evidence that sportsmen are willing
to pay the price. if they can see the money
put to direct use for a land-oriented conservation program.
TRADITIONALLY, trout anglers in
other parts of the world have paid for their
trout fishing through clubs which own or
control land, or by purchasing beats from
land owners. Widespread public trout fishing as seen in our country is rather unique,
but we may be fast approaching the time
when the cost of land-control and watercontrol must be borne more heavily by the
angling public if we are to permanently protect our fishing resources.
As to the National Trout Stamp concept,
an artist's competition (similar to that held
for the duck stamp) could be conducted
each year to choose the winning design for
the following year's stamp. A limited series
of prints could be produced from the original art. Sale of these prints to collectors
26
would raise a good amount of money, but
the real fund raising would come from the
sale of an annual trout stamp at $2.00 or
$3.00 a copy.
It would be important to utilize some
form of trust to insure that almost all of the
money raised went directly into an acquisition program. If properly promoted through
the federal Fish and Wildlife agency, as well
as state Fish and Game Departments and
the outdoor press, the sale of a national
trout stamp could produce millions of dollars each year for the acquisition and protection of trout waters.
There are millions of people in our
country who fish for trout, and many are individualists who don't join clubs or conservation organizations. But, it is conceivable
that a lot of these non-joiners would want to
help their sport by purchasing a trout
stamp, ifthe money
earmarked for purchasing and protecting the great trout
waters of America.
0
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If you fish the Catskills, these Maps
could be as improtant
as the flies you cast
THREE MAPS of famous Pools,
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Branch ofthe Delaware.
A COMPLETE GUIDE to
. Cairn's, Barnhardt's: Pai-1\ter's
Bend, Cemetery Pool, Bolton's
Eddy, Wagon Tracks, Fish's
Eddy - a total of S3 historic,
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public water and access points.
All numbered and keyed .
PRINTED ON SPECIAL waterproof material in handy, pocketsized folder.
PRICE TO TGF MEMBERS . ..
per set $4.00.
ORDER NOW!
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Make checks payable to
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Please rush _ _ sets of Maps
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Fishing the Isles: Emerald and Sceptered
Noel J. Holland
NINETEEN seventy five was the year I
didn 't go to England. So when Mr. Dermot
Wilson offered members of the Theodore
Gordon Flyfishers free fishing privileges on
his stretches of the Test and the Itchen two of England's most celebrated chalk
streams - I was among the many who had
to pass up this unique opportunity.
Noel J . Holland almost became a physician.
but wound up as a consu ltant in pharmaceutical advertising instead. A native of New York.
his early .fishing years were spent chasing
pickerel in the Catskills with plug and spoon.
He has since evolved into a passionate fly.fisherman who has waded most o/"the well-known
eastern streams from Canada to Georgia.
Plus frequent forays on the trout and salmon
waters of th e Britis'h Isles.
28
Maybe "even God can't afford a day
on the Test;" but good, affordable
fishing abounds in the Isles,
nonetheless
But I did VISIt Britain again in the
summer of '77, in large part to continue my
romance with the storied waters of that
sceptered isle. This love affair began 18
years ago, when the venerable London
tackle firm of Hardy's, in Pall Mall, arranged a glorious, unforgettable day on a particularly choice beat on the Test not far from
Mr. Wilson's own waters. (At today's prices,
God might not be able to afford a day on
that section of the river, either. But
everything was cheaper 18 years ago.) Partly
because of my inexperience with flyfishing,
in general, and my total ignorance of chalk
stream techniques in particular, my total
take on that day was one 18" grayling. The
British scornfully class this handsome
species with the so-called coarse fish - a
piscatorial demi-monde reserved for the
likes of perch, pike, dace, and roach. Don't
you believe it. The European grayling is a
shimmering, silvery beauty with a purpleflecked sail of a dorsal fin , and as noble as
any trout. I thought as much 18 years ago,
and nothing I've experienced since then has
altered that opinion.
Eighteen years have given me a gray hair
or two, but they've also sharpened my angling skills somewhat, and when I returned
in 1977 I looked forward to impressing this
fact upon the trout and salmon in Scotland,
Ireland, and England itself. Whether I succeeded in this endeavor may be somewhat
debatable, but I'm delighted to report that
quality fishing is alive and well in all three
places, and at surprisingly reasonable
prices, if one knows where to look. If the
places I'm about to describe are not the
precise equal of the finest private and club
waters, these more accessible rivers (most of
which belong to hotels that cater to fishermen) nevertheless offer challenging, rewarding, affordable flyfishing.
My angling during the summer of '77
centered mainly on Blair Atholl, in Scotland, Ballynahinch, in Ireland, and Devonshire, in southern England. The first of
these was familiar to me from previous trips,
the second a Hardy's recommendation (and
like the one 18 years ago it was another winner), and the third a semi-accidental discovery about which I shall have more to say
presently.
THE salmon of Ballynahinch, in the
Connemara section of southwestern Galway,
run smaller than the ones in Scotland's famous Tay. But then, so do the fees. A day's
angling at Ballynahinch, ghillie and all,
costs 22 pounds (about $40) - roughly
one-third what one would pay for a day on
the Tay.
For this comparatively modest amount,
the fisherman at Ballynahinch gets exclusive
rights to about half a mile of a river that is
nearly always teeming with superbly conditioned salmon. The largest one caught last
summer at the Ballynahinch fishery - the
main (some small-minded souls have been
said only) attraction of the Ballynahinch
Castle Hotel - scaled 12 pounds. During
the three days I spent there, most of the fish
ran considerably smaller. Seven to eight
pounds seemed about average.
All of this might well have stayed in the
realm of the purely academic, so far as I was
concerned, when I discovered that there
wasn't a beat to be had when I arrived. As a
matter of fact , these are usually booked
three to six months in advance, and my entire trip to Galway might have been a total
washout had it not been for the generosity of
a courtly, 85-year-old retired British army
surgeon who graciously invited me to join
him on his two-rod beat. As luck would have
it, virtue was well rewarded, as the doctor
caught a very handsome, incredibly muscular eight-pounder, while I had to content
myself with raising and missing a single
salmon. Strictly my fault, too - I failed to
heed the ghillie's admonition to wait until
the line straightened out before trying to set
the hook. Years of cultivating what I like to
think is a lightning-fast reaction to rising
browns had given me too much of a hairtrigger for productive salmon fishing.
But, as Edith Piaf used to sing, I regret
nothing. It was a wonderful, exciting introduction to the lure of Irish salmon fishing.
More than enough to whet my appetite for
another try soon again.
Along with fine salmon fishing, Ballynahinch also offers a steady run of sea trout.
These silvery fish look like scaled-down salmon - with a fighting skill to match - but
they can be readily recognized by the fact
29
that their dark spots are below as well as
above the midline, while their larger cousins
sport spots only on their upper halves. Although many of my Irish fishing companions would argue the point, these sea
trout are simply migratory browns rather
than a separate species. Like the salmon
whose rivers they share, sea trout enter fresh
water for amatory rather than gustatory
activities. Striking a fly is thought to be only
a conditioned reflex left over from the time
when they were still feeding in earnest, just
as it is for the salmon. (In Devon, however,
the seasoned hands claim that sea trout below a pound and a half actually do some
purposeful nymphing, to judge by their
stomach contents.)
Beats for sea trout are usually available
on short notice, at Ballynahinch, since it's
all night fishing. This is decidedly an acquired taste, which I have yet to acquire.
Still, I tried it one evening and nearly took a
very respectable fish - about two pounds,
from what I could see fleetingly. I worked
him in close to the shore, a steep, treacherous, bramble-covered sward where one
mis-step could plunge one quite specta-
cularly into about 10 feet of cold, swirling
water. Suddenly, my sea trout jumped
through the overhanging branches of a
streamside bush and tangled my leader in
the foliage. While I made two ineffectual
swipes at him with a too-short landing net,
he worked the fly loose from his typically
weak jaw. On my third attempt to net him,
all I retrieved was a fly and about two feet of
limp leader. Thus endeth my Great Sea
Trout Adventure.
30
But as we all know, there's a lot more to
fishing than just catching fish - and one of
those pleasures is the accidental discovery of
a delightful angling hotel, like the Ballynahinch Castle. This glorious 19th Century
hulk is a castle in roughly the same sense
that a permanent wave is permanent. And
as a hostelry, it is a healthy cut below its
neighbor, the Zetland, which the British
Automobile Association gives its prized
three-star rating. On the other hand, the
Castle controls more and probably better
waters. Both hotels are, by U.S. standards,
absurdly inexpensive - about eight pounds
per night, including three lusty meals. The
Ballynahinch Castle tends to be somewhat
less formal; rods are stacked in a stand, inside the door, and guest rooms have no
locks. It is an eloquent comment on the inherent honesty of Father Walton's disciples
that nothing ever seems to be stolen from
either place.
IF
Ballynahinch leaves something to
be desired in the castle department, the
same cannot be said of the one in Blair
Atholl, about three hours' drive north of
Edinburgh, Scotland. Blair Castle is the ancestral home of
Dukes of Atholl, and the
last one in the British Isles to have been besieged, during the 18th Century civil war.
The village of Blair Atholl, itself, stands
at the junction of the Tilt and Garry Rivers.
For a mere 2Sp per day - about 43 cents at
current rates - one may fish several miles
of these waters. When conditions are right,
both hold respectable fish - salmon included. But both times I visited Blair Atholl
have been in July, when low water limited
the salmon to insignificant 5" -8" parr that
looked suspiciously like small brown trout.
If one's taste runs to this sort of quarry, he
can probably catch (and, hopefully, release)
100 or more of these pygmies per day.
But it is the ravishing Scottish highland
countryside, rather than the angling, that
draws me willingly back to Blair Atholl
every chance I get.
Not that there isn't some quality fishing
to be had locally. For a mere pound a day
(just three years ago it-was 2Sp!) one can fish
the Duke's own so-called Walker Ponds
right on the castle grounds. Rumor has it
that they hQld a fair number of two-pound
brown trout. But since I'm not terribly keen
on stillwater fishing when there's a river to
be waded, I stuck with the midget salmonand the gigantic beauty of the countryside
where they live.
I
F you wonder what a "spate river" is,
the answer given to me is that it is a river
that deepens after each heavy rain or runoff, and ebbs to very low water between
times.
At high water, many of Devon's spate
rivers hold salmon and sea trout. And even
when the water is low, they often have excellent brown trout, too.
On this trip, I had booked a room at the
Arundell Arms Hotel. This lovely hostelry in
the town of Lifton is owned by Ann VossBark. Both Mrs. Voss-Bark, and her husband, Conrad Voss-Bark, are world-class
anglers and fishing writers. I can also vouch
for the fact that they are world-class hosts;
food at the Arundell Arms is consistently
excellent. Unhappily, as much cannot be
said for the fishing, which hinges almost
entirely on the amount of water flowing
through its 20 or so miles of the Tamar and
the Trushell.
I can state without t:eservation that these
waters are lovely to look at (though in many
places they seem quite difficult to enter or
leave without getting well-raked by nettles
and other assorted nasties). Unfortunately,
as in Scotland, I arrived after a long dry
spelLa.nd the rivers rema!!!e-d in ebb during
my three-day stay. Many of the regulars at
the hotel told me of triumphs past on these
'very same waters, which I can readily believe. I can also recommend the unique
tackle shop operated for the hotel by its
chief water bailiff, Roy Buckingham, in a
centuries-old cockpit. Here, in a bygone
epoch, fighting roosters battled to the death
for the amusement of the rustics, and the
city blades who came down from London to
watch. Happily, the shop is now well supplied with high, quality rods, reels, and fishing
clothing - all at moderate prices - and the
only trace of gamecocks is in the hackles
on
adorning thousands of
sale there.
In sum, the Arundell Arms Hotel was
delightful and the scenery breathtaking.
And I did catch and release a number of
browns ranging up to about a half-pound.
No trophies, certainly, but good sport on my
6-foot 1-7/8" oimce Leonard 'Baby Catskill'.
But I do hope that when I return for another
31
visit, the waters will be higher . . . and the
fish mightier.
I
T may be that the best trophy of my
trip was not a fish but a hotel: the Fox and
Hounds. This modest, though eminently
comfortable, hotel, controls about seven
miles of the Taw, another spate river.
Typically English in character, the Fox and
Hounds is located in Chulmleigh, about 30
miles from the Arundell Arms, and I
stumbled on it by the purest accident.
Here's how it happened. I arrived in Devon a full day ahead of the time I was expected at the Arundell Arms, and needed a
place to spend the night. Turning to my
trusty British Tourist Association guide, I
spotted an inexpensive hotel right in the
area I wanted and, wonder of wonders, it
offered fishing among its attractions. That
was all I needed to know, and off I went to
the Fox and Hounds, taking pot-luck on
even finding a vacancy. Pot luck turned out
to be great luck.
The hotel itself has an excellent kitchen,
a friendly bar, and - its two most important resources - a marvelously hospitable
owner, Mr. Alan Chappell, and his enthusiastic water bailiff, Chris.
Plus some" of the prettiest waters I saw
all month.
Although conditions were poor for
salmon, and only slightly better for sea trout
(which I saw but didn't catch), my score of
caught-and-released brown trout was little
short of awesome: in the couple of hours I
fished there, no fewer than SO medium-sized
fish fell for my slightly less than perfect
home-tied creations.
But even in hadn't caught a single minnow, I would still have rated my visit to the
Fox and Hounds as a thumping success, for
it was while I was there that I first saw the
elusive little English kingfisher. This shimmering, miniature version of our own
American Belted Kingfisher is almost jewellike in its iridescent beauty - blue-green
above, orange on its breast. As I heard later
that day, people rarely catch more than a
fleeting glimpse of this little bird, and then
almost always on the wing. For some unfathomable reason, the one I saw obliged me
32
by alighting on a near-by tree branch and
gave me at least 15 seconds to look him
over!
The Fox and Hounds itself is very
moderately priced. One could happily spend
a wonderful, well-nourished week there as I fully hope to do some day soon - for '
only eight pounds per day (about $14), including food, fishing privileges, and lots of
good company.
All in all, the summer of '77 proved two
things to me: if you can't have a day on the
Test or the Itchen, fishing in Britain and
Ireland can still be a thoroughly delightful
experience. And well worth the trip.
It also proved that my love affair with
those glorious isles and their marvelous
trout and salmon waters continues to burn
as brightly as ever.
0
In spate or out.
Handle With Care
Good intentions are not enough
to insure survival of
released fish
Randy Kaufmann
MOST modern fly anglers are aware
that the remaining wild fish are a natural resource, and as such the supply is exhaustible. Today's fisherman is fishing for sport
and the enjoyment of angling and not to kill
fish. For, the truth is, there simply aren't
enough fish, particularly trout, for anglers
to "kill a limit. " To the sportsman-angler, a
limit is a control, not a magic mark to shoot
for. Accordingly, the angler who releases the
fish he catches should be praised; the fisherman who kills all he nets should be ashamed.
From an economic point of view, stream
fish come mighty expensive, and if one's
goal is food for the table, he'll do much better at the local fish market. Hatchery trout
are a poor substitute for wild trout - both
on the table and at the end of a fly line - as
far as modern anglers are concerned. Somehow , the magic is missing from palid, puny,
truck trout. The dividends would be much
greater if hatchery money were spent instead on education, proper wild fisheries
management and enforcement; the angler
would derive much greater sport and pleasure. No true sportsman would prefer a
freezer-full of pale, lifeless eight-inch hatchRandy Kaufmann divides his tim e between
.fishing. running his Streambom Fly Shop in
Tigard. Oregon. and writing fishing books.
He is author of The American Nymph Fly
Tying Manual. Publication of The Art and
Science of Lake Fishing With a Fly. co-auth ored with Ron Cordes. is scheduled for
early summer.
.
ery runts to fewer but larger, dark colored
wild trout spawning in a wild environment
rather than a concrete swimming pool. But
to achieve this, the kill-limit would have to
be reduced to near-zero; that means releasing most of the fish caught so they might live
to fight again - and to spawn.
It may be that I'm preaching to the converted here; experience indicates that most
flyfishermen already abide by the catchand-release philosophy. What may be helpful, however, are a few pointers on proper
technique for releasing netted fish. This
might seem like a redundency, but I have
seen an awful lot of trout turned back to the
stream that had no chance for survival because of improper handling by well-intentioned anglers.
THE first rule in insuring survival of
released fish is to exercise extreme care in
handling. This begins with playing the fish;
the longer a fish is played, the more lactic
acid builds up in its bloodstream. Try to
land your fish in a reasonable amount of
time without horsing it. Never release a tired
fish until it has completely recovered. By
gently holding a played-out fish upright in
fairly slack water and moving it back and
forth, the gills will begin pumping valuable
oxygen into its system. A fish in this position
will sometimes try to escape, but make sure
it is completely revived and can swim strongly before releasing it. This process generally
takes no more than a minute or two but is
essential if the fish is to survive.
33
Randy Kaufmann demon·
strates the correct method
for holding big trout without
injuring them before they
are released. But, of course,
first you have to catch the
trout.
Do not handle a fish anymore than absolutely necessary. Most damage occurs to a
fish through improper handling or while
flopping on the bank. If you have to handle
a fish to remove the hook, gently grip it at
the jaw with one hand and remove the hook
with the other. Incidentally, a .pair of surgeon's forceps or hemostat is about the best
tool invented for removing a fly from a fish's
jaw; it allows a minimum of handling and
leaves the fly undamaged. Never squeeze a
fish as it severely damages its vital organs,
which are concentrated in the "throat"
area. Squeezing a fish in this area is almost
guaranteed to injure it fatally. A barbless
hook helps in alleviating this problem. With
a barb less hook, the fish usually may be released by a simple twist of the fly, while it's
still in the water. Contrary to popular belief,
a fish will seldom be lost due to barbless
hooks and they are much gentler on the fish,
both in the hooking..and the release. Tying
your flies on barb less hooks or mashing
down the barb is highly recommended.
If a fish is hooked deep, the best thing to
do is cut the leader and leave the fly in the
fish. Nature's mechanism and the fish's own
juices will usually dissolve the hook in a
short time, with no lasting effect, except to
make the fish a bit warier next time.
THE
time will come - and I hope it
comes frequently! - that you will land a
fish you want to photograph. Fine. Just be
sure to use care in handling the fish. Gently
34
lift the fish out of the water by its tail, with
the other hand loosely holding the fish at the
midsection. Or, slide both hands under the
fish and gently but quickly lift it out of the
water. Never keep a fish out of the water
longer than absolutely necessary; a fish
drowns in the air, just as we do in the water.
There's some controversy on this point, but
I believe it's best to handle fish with wet
hands as this protects the mucous film
which guards the fish against fungus, infection and disease. A good way to photograph
your fish is to place it on wet grass with your
rod and some flies alongside. But do it
quickly, and get the fish back into the water.
We all like to know the weight of a good
fish, but I strongly advise against weighing a
fish you intend to release; spring scales are
deadly on a fish. And, never grab or hold a
fish by the gills. A fish takes in oxygen
through its gills and they are easily
damaged. It's like a punctured lung. A safe,
quick way to measure a fish is to mark off
its length on your rod. It's quite simple to
determine a fish's weight from its length
and condition. The important factor is releasing a fish unharmed, not what it weighs.
A fish that has lost a good deal of blood will
probably not survive, and should be kept for
the pan.
Today's flyfisher has the best of two
worlds: the thrill, sport and enjoyment of
catching fish in the most refined manner,
and releasing it to fish for again ... and
again. And by doing so, help perpetuate a
sport beyond compare.
0
A Limited Report
Ted Shultz
EVEN after two trips to New Zealand,
each a month long, we feel our experiences
are too limited to allow us to generalize on
the trout fishing in that Down Under land.
We can, however, report without equivocation on the country and its people. In a
word , both are wonderful.
There are a couple of things we can say
with confidence about the trout: (1) they are
there in abundance, with a great many big
ones among them, and (2) the big ones are
no easier to catch there than they are anywhere else.
Both our trips were made during our
winter, which, of course, is their summeror is supposed to be. Actually, the weather
in Southland on South Island, where we
spent most of our time, was quite cold, with
a cold west wind blowing much of the time.
Latitude 47° south is comparable to Canada
well north of Montreal. Warm outdoor
clothing was a necessity and lack of central
heating indoors made warm nightclothes
equally essential.
Since we spent most of our time in
Southland, our experiences in North Island
were particularly limited. We did manage
six days in the Rotorua Lakes region but
found trolling to be the preferred method, a
method holding no interest for us. We did,
however, find one small stream nearby, the
Ngongotaha. Using small dry flies, we fished
it several times, morning and evenings, and
had fun taking some "tiddlers" as well as
several good rainbows running up to two
Ted Shultz does most of his trout fishing on
Catskill streams. in his own neighborhood.
That he does range far afield. however. is
clear trom this account o( visits to N ew Zealand. ' D espite th e enticement of exotic. foreign-born .flies. he remains loyal to his belo ved C. H. Caddis.
-
pounds. We never got to fish the Kaituna
River, outlet for the Rotorua Lakes system.
In fact, we only saw it once, a large, slowmoving, impressive flow. At one location, we
glimpsed two fishing platforms jutting out
into the river. The one thing that can be said
for North Island is that it is considerably
warmer than Southland, which has to be
something of a paradox.
Actually, it's not, because Southland is
the southernmost region in New Zealand,
located at latitude 47° south, positioning it
closer to the Antarctic. From the rugged
Like anyplace else, New Zealand's
monster trout don't get that way by
being stupid or easily caught. But,
Lordy, , they are there!
Southern Alps on the West Coast, the vast
region stretches through smaller mountains
and rolling valleys to the gentler East Coast.
Thousands of sheep are pastured in the
valleys. The Southern Lakes area is found in
the West. Two of the lakes, Te Anau and
Manapouri, are drained by the Waiau
River, about the size of the Delaware below
Hancock, where our one fishing foray produced no action.
Farther north, we spent a week on a
sheep station at the headwaters of Lake
Wakatipu, a land of spectacular scenery
where snow-patched mountains rose all
about us. Stream fishing was limited, however, due to glacial silt. Most of our fishing
was done on nearby Diamond Lake, casting
from shore. The strategy here called for
carefully walking around the shore, some
feet back, trying to spot rising or cruising
fish. As with nearly all water in New Zealand, the lake is very clear. The trick is to
avoid spooking your fish, trying to guess
which way he's headed and to drop your dry
fly a few feet in front of him. It didn't always
work, but when it did it paid off. We didn't
take many fish, but those we did hook were
good browns of two and three pounds. Here
pattern didn't seem to matter, though a
barbless size 14 GH Caddis paid off for us.
35
FROM the Diamond Lake area we
traveled to the Mataura River region , where
we did most of our fishing on both visits.
Cecil Heacox has written that many regard
the Mataura as the world's best brown trout
river. And they could be right. Certainly, the
fish are there. The Mataura rises in mountains south of Lake Wakatipu, glides
through a pastoral valley, then plunges
through the Nokamai Gorge. From there it
flows gently but firmly another fifty miles to
the sea.
For our purposes, we divided the Mataura into its upper and lower sections , with
Nokomai as the divider. Above Nokomai the
fish were few but big, usually only one or
two to a pool, and we drew a complete blank
in that water. At Nokomai, where the river
more nearly resembles our Catskill streams,
with white water and riffles, we ran into
spirited action during the evening rise. A
barbless size 12 White Wulff produced well
for us, but, again, it was our feeling that any
highly visible pattern would have been
effective. We regretted not having the
chance to fish that water earlier in the day,
but it never worked out, and we had to settle
for evening fishing.
During our first visit to New Zealand in
1976, we had devoted one week to the lower
Mataura; this time we spent nearly four
weeks fishing the lower section of the river
36
and several of its tributaries. Our base was
Gore, a town of 8,000 population, where we
stayed with Ken and Val Grace, a most hospitable couple, whose companionship we
enjoyed immensely. Being semi-retired, our
host placed himself at our disposal and
under his guidance we ranged up and down
the river. Wherever we went there were
trout; lots of trout and plenty of big ones.
We could see fish everywhere. Trouble was,
they could see us, too. Which made for some
very tough fishing. There were many days
when we couldn't induce even a single
strike. Then, again, there were days when
everything seemed to go right and we had
good sport, such as the day that produced a
4V2 pound brown. That turned out to be the
best fish we took on the Mataura itself. It
fell for that old reliable size 12 barbless
White Wulff, though, in fact , the best producers were two wet flies, Greenwell's Glory
and Red-Tipped Governor, during the
evening rise. The Mataura sections we
fished are comparable in size to the East
Branch of the Delaware when it has some
water in it.
New Zealand rivers come big
and so do the trout in them .
Ted Shultz displays a prize
rainbow about to be returned
to the water .
BESIDES the main river, we also
fished the Otamita and Waikaia with some
success, as well as the Pomahaka, a tributary of the Clutha River. Mostly we fished
above Gore, but on occasion did venture
downstream several miles to Charlton.
We found most of the streams we fished
to be quite different in character than the
Catskill waters we're used to. With the exception of the Nokomai Gorge section of the
Mataura, the streams flow through sheep
pastureland and are either completely open
or thickly overhung with willows. Our choice
was no cover at all or too much cover,
though on the Waikaia we did manage to
land a nice trout through a break in the
willows. Somewhere in New Zealand there
must be streams more like the Willowemoc
and the Beaverkill! Maybe some day we'll
find them and fish them.
Despite the limited number of streams
we were able to fish and the numerous times
we came up empty-handed, every hour of
our visits to New Zealand were enjoyable
and memorable. It is a beautiful land, rugged in its superb mountains, pleasant and
green in its sheep-studded plains, satisfyingly familiar in its rolling green hills and
Another of South Island's impressive rivers . Some large
pools contain only one or two
fish , but they are huge , and
this angler is working hard to
tempt one to his fly .
breath-taking in its glorious seascapes. And
we can't say enough for the people who
were, without exception, gracious, kindly
and helpful. We found them to be thoughtful, friendly and genuine, most especially
our hosts, Ken and Val Grace. Incidentally,
since Women's Lib doesn 't appear to have
touched New Zealand yet, the cost of a tourist fishing license for a Ms. is one-half that
for a Mr. A one month license is $2 for a Ms.
and $4 for Mr. , entitling one to fish anywhere in the country except for two small
Maori lakes. Out first trip to New Zealand
was arranged through Mel Krieger of Club
Pacific* and we found his assistance extremely helpful. We would encourage anyone planning a first-time visit to New Zealand to do likewise.
0
*Club Pacific
790 27th A venue
San Francisco, CA 94121
37
The Fly-Leaf
The Caddis and the Angler
Larry Solomon & Eric Leiser
Stackpole Books, Harrisburgh , PA
Bright Rivers
Nick Lyons
J.P. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia and New York
I 'd be the last person to put down fishing
"how-to" books. They meet a real need, and
if my fishing skills are no better now than
when I started swinging a long rod too many
years ago, blame it on my inability to absorb, retain and make use of the teachings
offered by such volumes. Neither the books
nor their instructions were at fault.
Still, I'm ready to admit that the modern
angler is the sum of all that has been written
on the sport in the past five centuries or so.
To paraphrase a well-chewed aphorism,
"We are what we read, " fishingwise.
Nevertheless, I'm seldom stirred by the
appearance of a new "how-to" volume.
Mainly because I have lost the illusion that
poring over pages of piscatorial prose will
help elevate me into the charmed circle of
the ten percent of fishermen who catch 90
percent of the fish . Somehow. all that
weighty information gets left behind when I
head for the stream, and I for ge ahead resolutely with my faithful chuck-and-chance
system, an infallible technique for preserving trout popUlations .
Th e Caddis and th e Angler by Larry
38
Solomon and Eric Leiser have excited me,
and should excite everyone who loves to fish
a fly. It has to be classed as a landmark
book. As Leonard M. Wright, Jr. , has declared, "This volume, as far as the flyfisher
is concerned, will remain the book of the
caddis." And Wright should know what
he's talking about; his Fishing the Dry Fly
as a Living Insect (1974) presaged the resurgence of interest in the caddis as trout food
and the importance of caddis artificials in
the fly box .
With eyes locked unwaveringly on the
mayfly as the prime fodder for trout , and
the one to imitate, flyfishers over the years
have largely ignored the caddis. Particularly
since the emergence of dry fly fishing and its
institutionalizing by such high priests as
Frederic Halford. The Dry Fly was the thing
and the Mayfly was the one to imitate. All
this despite the long and honorable history
of the caddis, dating back to Dame Juliana
Berners. who included caddis patterns in
her fam ous XII in the Trea tysse 011 Fyssnge
W\'lh {III AIIRle. first published in 1496.
In th e past. the diligent flyfisher could
pick up bits and pieces of information by
laboring through dozens of different volumes and entomological journals. Prior to
the Caddis and th e Angler. there existed no
single volume encompassing all the information a flyftsher would need. The authors
have done the research, the experimenting
and the studying, translated it all into practical fishing language , and flyfishermen are
the beneficiaries.
As the authors point out , there are good
reasons for the flyfisher to be interested in
caddis. One is their value as trout food. In
many waters they surpass mayflies as the
dominant fare in the trout's diet; in some
streams they make up more than half of the
available food supply. Being hardier than
mayflies, caddis can survive. even thrive, in
waters that mayflies cannot tolerate . And
there are many more of them - more than
1,000 species in North America alone. And
they're around longer . Whereas most mayflies live only a few days after hatching,
some common caddis species live as long as
two months. During that time, they return
to the stream frequently to take on water ,
increasing their availability to the trout. Another significant difference is that caddis do
not die immediately after mating and
egg-laying , the fate of mayflies. Caddis may
mate and return to the stream to lay eggs
several times, offering trout additional
whacks at them.
The Caddis and th e Angler does not
limit itself to entomological information ,
however . Most of the book is devoted to
sound, practical guidance on artificals to
imitate the four stages of caddis - larva,
pupa, adult and ovipositing female adult and the best methods for fishing them.
Techniques for tishing the larva imitations
differ from those for the pupa; fishing the
caddis dry fly calls for different procedures
than those for mayfly imitations. Also included are tips on reading the water, casting
and identifying caddis families and major
species.
The section - sections, actually - on
major caddis patterns Will be valuable
equally to the flyftsher who ties his own and
the one who buys his. Step-by-step. fully
illustrated instructions are given for fourteen best-known and most effective patterns
covering the pupa. larva and adult stages.
In addition. dressings are given for another
81 favorites contributed by tlyfishermen /
tiers from around the country , along with
instructions on how to fish them.
Being the first book devoted entirely and
exclusively to caddis gives Th e Caddis and
th e Angler a high degree of importance in
the literature of angling. But more than
that, the flyfisher who reads and heeds is offered the opportunity to increase his fishing
pleasure and productivity by as much as
half again : And that , as the man said , ain't
chopped liver.
L
Bright Rivers. Nick Lyons recalls how
he was identified by three strangers in a
Montana tackle shop as the "master of frustration". One ofthem explains: "You speak
for all of us . For the poor guy who sits in his
office all year dreaming, gets out for only
two weeks , and then bungles everything ."
Those three strangers had stumbled upon a truth: Nick Lyons does speak for all of
us. Or, certainly, for most of us. As for being the "master of frustration ," he may not
actually experience more of it than the rest
of us. It's just that he gives voice to it so
much more eloquently. His lamentations
are universal; they echo the wails of the
"two-weekers" of the world . And our
numbers are legion, give or take a few such
as Ernie Schwiebert, Charlie Brooks , Lee
Wulff, Swisher & Richards or Charlie Fox,
who needs only step off his back porch to
drop his Sulphur Dun unto the placid
waters of the Letort. These are the anointed
ones; they whose waders don't have time to
dry out between sorties to storied fishing
waters .
But most of us, like Lyons, are caught
up in the never-ending hassles of earning a
livelihood or the demands of family life.
Combining two full-time careers as a college
professor and that of a writer (he'll soon be
returning to a third as a book editor/ publisher) it's a wonder Lyons ekes out any time
for fishing . True, there is the Hudson River
a block or two from his Manhattan apartment. but that's not quite the same as the
Big Hole or the Beaverkill; the Hudson
could hardly be described as a bright river
as it moves sluggishly and sludge-laden past
the metropolitan area.
39
But because he loves rivers, Lyons has
affection even for the Hudson; perhaps because at its source high in the green purity
of the Adirondacks it is shining and clean.
His rivers are threads; Bright Rivers is the
fabric woven of all those threads. His first
was a tiny rivulet purling out of the forest
floor of the Catskills, unmapped and unnamed, but Lyons took his first trout from
it. In time, it was joined by the more adult,
tradition-rich Beaverkil1. the Delaware,
Neversink , the Scoharie and the Esopus the rivers of Theodore Gordon and Hewitt,
of LaBranche and Reuben Cross. Sti11later,
Lyons visited those historic rivers in the
company of such as Art Flick, Len Wright,
Ed Van Put and Mike Miguel. And with his
sons. It might be said that it was there that
he began to acquire his title of "master of
frustration" and to perfect the arts of bung 1ing and wrong-guessing. Even with Flick as
mentor, he seemed unable to be on the
scene at the time of the Hendrickson
hatches; it was always, "next week for
sure," or "you should have seen them last
week!"
Then, as inevitably it must happen to all
trout fishermen, he succumbed to the lure
of far-off waters . He went West; a land
where the towering Rockies dwarf the Catskills to foot-hills; where the rivers are measured in hundreds of yards rather than feet
-majestic , broad-shouldered torrents that
hurl megatons of snow-melt and rain along
their erratic courses: Yellowstone, the
Madison, Big Hole, the Beaverhead,
Missouri, the Snake. But a land, too, of
gentler flows - spring creeks and meadow
streams: the Firehole, Armstrong's, the
Gibbon, Nelson's. the Wise and Henrys
Fork, an amiable river for aIJ its hugeness.
These are not rivers we associate with
the pioneers of flyfishing in America. But
they are heavy with the history of pioneers of
a different sort - the vanguard of the
Western Movement: Lewis and Clark, Jim
Bridger, John Colter, "men to match the
mountains" .
Lyons loves them all equally - rivers
East and rivers West. but for different reasons and in different ways. A love affair, to
blossom, needs an object for the passion.
For Lyons and his rivers it is flyfishing for
trout.
"Must you actually.fish to enjoy rivers?"
a non-fishing friend asks Lyons.
" Yes," he replies. "The fish make the
difference. "
So the pages chronicle his wooing of
trout from river to river - the occasional
triumph, the more frequent frustration of
giant trout hooked but never netted. At
times passion passed into obsession, as
Henrys Lake, where the monstrous brookies
and cutthroat that prowled its dark depths
held him in thrall. For days Lyons fished beyond the point of reason , rising at four in
the morning and remaining anchored on the
lake ti11long after dark. Five hours of sleep,
then back at it again. Finally, an alarmed
friend dragged him off the lake - to the
Madison!
With a forthrightness seldom displayed
by fishermen, and an even rarer vein of
humor, Lyons lets it all hang out, warts and
all - the bungling, the mishaps, the calamaties; but also the beauty, the mystery and
the delights that are all part of the benign
insanity called flyfishing. He may bungle a
roll-cast, but there are few flaws in the prose
that roils from his typewriter.
In the end, Lyons, like most of us caught
in it. accepts the reality and the necessity of
city life. It is a compromise, but one made
infinitely more bearable by rememberances
of rivers past and the anticipation of rivers
to come. For both the memories and the
anticipation give deeper meaning to each
new or renewed encounter with a river,
which Roderick Haig-Brown called "water
in its loveliest form".
With rare insight. Lyons writes that
"fishing is nothing ifnot a pastime; it would
be hell if I did it all the time." The skeptic
snorts, "Oh, yeah? Just try me."
But most of us , I think, understand
what he means. Bright Rivers is a book to be
read, slowly, and reread again and again.
Particularly for those of us who, through
choice or circumstance, are bound into the
steel and asphalt borders of cities, where we
measure out our lives, not with Eliot's coffee
spoons, but with subway tokens.
-jap
40
TGF-Gingrich Literature Award to Lamb
Dana S. Lamb was named winner of the second Arnold Gingrich Angling Heritage
Award for "significant contribution" to the literature of angling. The Award ,
sponsored by Theodore Gordon Fly fishers , consisting of the bronze-and-walnut
plaque shown above and a $1,000 cash prize, was presented at the TGF Annual
Dinner by Committee chairman Dr. Nick Lyons.
Born in Brooklyn, N.Y. in 1900, Lamb began his writing in 1930 with contributions to
the Bulletin of the Anglers ' Club of N. Y. Among the books he has published are
Wh ere Th e Pools are Bright and Deep; Woodsmoke and Watercress; Not Far From
Th e River and Som e Silent Places Still.
41
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The Notes and Letters of
Theodore Gordon.
Edited and Introduction by
John McDonald . Foreword by
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_
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