American Fly Fisher - American Museum Of Fly Fishing

The
American
Fly Fisher
Journal of the American Museum of Fly Fishing
SPRING 2005
VOLUME 31 N UMBER 2
Tell Me a Story
Open countenances. In Genio C. Scott, Fishing in American Waters
(New York: The American News Company, 1875), 267.
L
AST SUMMER DURING A STAFF MEETING, it was decided
rather suddenly that we—a journal of fly-fishing history—would devote an issue to fishing stories. These would
be personal fishing stories, written by trustees, familiar
authors, and friends of the Museum. Immediately I thought of
Blair Oliver and a story he had sent me for consideration more
than a year before. It was good. Really good. I wanted to accept
it, but it was more of a literary piece, and I couldn’t quite make
it fit into our definition of “history.” As you might imagine, it’s
often a tough call deciding what’s “history,” what isn’t, and
why.
Because, of course, a part of fly-fishing history is the stories
we tell each other and the literature of the sport. At our meeting, we justified an issue of stories as a reflection of fly fishing
in the twentieth century. After all, we have friends who have
been fishing since the 1930s. What are some of the memories
and experiences of people associated with the Museum?, we
asked. What was the sport like for the wealthy and the maybe
not so? What places were important to people, and why? What
moment might be burned into a person’s memory?
I had to return Blair Oliver’s story. It was one of the toughest pieces I’ve had to turn down. But here was an opening.
Maybe he would let us publish it now. I was lucky; he said yes.
I lead this issue with Oliver’s “Bright Feathered Things,” starting on page 2. But read on, because that’s just the beginning.
This issue brings you stories from New Jersey, Canada,
Iceland, Alaska, the Florida Keys, Pennsylvania, Colorado,
Vermont, and Georgia. You will read tales of men and women
looking for something: the right pattern, the perfect hat, a bigger duffel bag, a better relationship. You will read about the
love of a place and the getting to know it. You will be privy to
moments on the periphery: a bridge game in the clouds, perhaps, or releasing something that is not a fish. There’s even an
old-fashioned boys-against-the-girls competition.
A caveat, and a reassurance for the die-hard historians: by
no means are we in a position to or interested in turning the
American Fly Fisher into a full-time literary journal or repository for braggadocio. We may receive a lot more fishing stories
as a result of this issue, many of which may be rejected or filed
away until we have the space—both physical and political—to
include them. First and foremost, this journal is about fly-fishing history and its preservation.
Speaking of that preservation, the story of our own
Museum continues. The grand opening of our new building is
Saturday, June 11. Please take a look at the invitation on page
32. We hope to see many of you there.
It has been a pleasure having these authors tell me their stories. Now, sit back, relax, and let them tell you.
KATHLEEN ACHOR
EDITOR
THE AMERICAN MUSEUM
OF FLY FISHING
Preserving the Heritage
of Fly Fishing
TRUSTEES
E. M. Bakwin
Michael Bakwin
Foster Bam
Pamela Bates
Steven Benardete
Paul Bofinger
Duke Buchan III
Mickey Callanen
Peter Corbin
Blake Drexler
William J. Dreyer
Christopher Garcia
Ronald Gard
George R. Gibson III
Gardner L. Grant
Chris Gruseke
James Hardman
James Heckman
Lynn L. Hitschler
Arthur Kaemmer, M.D.
Woods King III
Carl R. Kuehner III
Nancy Mackinnon
Walter T. Matia
William C. McMaster, M.D.
James Mirenda
John Mundt
David Nichols
Wayne Nordberg
Michael B. Osborne
Raymond C. Pecor
Stephen M. Peet
Leigh H. Perkins
Allan K. Poole
John Rano
Roger Riccardi
Kristoph J. Rollenhagen
William Salladin
Ernest Schwiebert
Robert G. Scott
James A. Spendiff
Richard G. Tisch
David H. Walsh
James C. Woods
TRUSTEES EMERITI
Charles R. Eichel
G. Dick Finlay
W. Michael Fitzgerald
William Herrick
Robert N. Johnson
David B. Ledlie
Leon L. Martuch
Keith C. Russell
Paul Schullery
Stephen Sloan
OFFICERS
Chairman of the Board
President
Vice Presidents
Treasurer
Secretary
Clerk
Robert G. Scott
David H. Walsh
George R. Gibson III
Lynn L. Hitschler
Michael B. Osborne
Stephen M. Peet
James Mirenda
James C. Woods
Charles R. Eichel
S TA F F
Interim Executive Director
Director of Events
Administration & Membership
Art Director
Yoshi Akiyama
Lori Pinkowski
Rebecca Nawrath
Sara Wilcox
THE AMERICAN FLY FISHER
Editor
Design & Production
Copy Editor
Kathleen Achor
Sara Wilcox
Sarah May Clarkson
Journal of the American Museum of Fly Fishing
SPRING 2005
VOLUME 31
NUMBER 2
Bright Feathered Things . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2
Blair Oliver
The Condor and Grizzly Inheritance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
Edward G. Davis
Panic and Whiskey in Iceland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8
Ed Migdalski
To Alaska with Love, or Diary of a Fishing Wife . . . . . . . 10
Fanny Krieger
Islamorada with Charlie Causey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14
Nathaniel P. Reed
My Search for the Perfect Fishing Hat . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16
Robert H. Berls
A Pair of Browns (Myotis lucifugus and Salmo trutta) . . . 18
Robert J. Demarest
The Fishing Was the Best of It
(With Apologies to Dana Lamb) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
Gardner L. Grant
Gore Creek: A Love Story . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
John Betts
Notes and Comment . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24
The Soque Sisters vs. the Foggy Bottom Boys . . . . . . . . 25
Stephen Sloan
Letters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27
Museum News . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27
ON THE COVER: An illustration from The Out of Door Library: Angling by
Leroy M. Yale et al. (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1897), 41.
The American Fly Fisher (ISSN 0884-3562) is published
four times a year by the Museum at P.O. Box 42, Manchester, Vermont 05254.
Publication dates are winter, spring, summer, and fall. Membership dues include the cost of the
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All letters, manuscripts, photographs, and materials intended for publication in the journal should be sent to
the Museum. The Museum and journal are not responsible for unsolicited manuscripts, drawings, photographic
material, or memorabilia. The Museum cannot accept responsibility for statements and interpretations that are
wholly the author’s. Unsolicited manuscripts cannot be returned unless postage is provided. Contributions to The
American Fly Fisher are to be considered gratuitous and the property of the Museum unless otherwise requested
by the contributor. Articles appearing in this journal are abstracted and indexed in Historical Abstracts and America:
History and Life. Copyright © 2005, the American Museum of Fly Fishing, Manchester, Vermont 05254. Original
material appearing may not be reprinted without prior permission. Periodical postage paid at
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POSTMASTER: Send address changes to The American Fly Fisher, P.O. Box 42, Manchester, Vermont 05254.
Bright Feathered Things
by Blair Oliver
From Albert Bigelow Paine, The Tent Dwellers (New York: Harper & Brothers Publishers, 1908), 11.
W
HEN I WAS A BOY, my grandfather owned the only Orvis
shop in New Jersey. Situated a
stone’s-throw from a small waterfall and
mill on the South Branch of the Raritan
River, the shop was long on charm, if
short on profit. That didn’t bother my
grandfather, who, at six-foot-three and
well over 200 pounds, went by the nickname Big Ed. If he was eating lunch,
hunched in the closet-sized office at the
side of the shop, which he did at the
same time every day for more than
twenty years, the stray customer would
have to wait until he was through. To
handicap himself, my grandfather
stocked the floor with shirts and sports
pants only tourists could afford, and the
town didn’t attract many tourists. My
grandmother’s antiques cluttered the
front window. She sold them in a part of
2
THE AMERICAN FLY FISHER
the store called the “Bea Hive,” a pun on
her name.
For me, all of this meant elbow room
to play marbles with the larger split shot
and to study the bright, alien flies—
Royal Coachmans, Yellow Sallys, Trudes.
I’d catch houseflies in the corners, collecting them in the hard, hinged plastic
cases tackle shops don’t carry anymore
because they cut into the bottom line.
My flies would rest until I shook the
case, then secured a stunned fly to some
tippet. Hiding behind the sports pants,
I’d release the fly in a customer’s direction, and when he’d swat at it, I’d yank
the tippet. This, too, wasn’t good for
business. After a halfhearted scolding, I’d
hide in the office and suck on the sugar
cubes beside the coffeepot, waiting for
my father to return. Still, for all of the
time I spent in the shop, I was never
close to my grandfather, and although he
was an expert with access to private
waters, he never offered to take me fishing.
!
On a recent trip to New Jersey from
my home in Colorado, I called my
father, something I don’t always do. I
asked him to go fishing, and though he
hesitated, he agreed. He decided on
Round Valley Reservoir. I’d wanted to fly
fish the Raritan, my grandfather’s old
water, but it was the middle of July and
the river was low and close to 80 degrees.
My father didn’t think we’d catch any
fish in the reservoir either, but we’d at
least have gone boating. My father had
spent many years messing around in
boats, including much of the time he
was married to my mother. One was a
capsized yacht in the Virgin Islands. The
boat had grounded and, rather than pay
someone to tow it, the captain left it
there, opening the shipwreck as a tourist
bar. It featured a large, alcoholic snake
that hung from the rafters and drank
shots off the teak. Booze was cheap, but
the tourists had to pay four dollars for a
shot of imported mixer. My father would
meet these revelers halfway through
happy hour and take them on an “insiders’” tour of the islands, complete with a
native dancing show starring women
who ran a dentist’s office, sold real
estate, and did nails during the day.
My father had never taken me fishing
either, so I wasn’t convinced we’d go
until I got to his house and saw his El
Camino parked in the drive, spinning
rods poking from the bed. We picked up
a small boat from a friend of his, fought
through the midmorning crowd at the
launch, and set out. Even though I was
thirty-five, he thought it would be fun
for me to drive, so I throttled the outboard as he rigged the rods with sinkers
and grubs. My father, in case this isn’t
clear, is not a purist. He’s more interested in catching fish than how he goes
about doing it. He went straight for the
worms while my fly rod sat primly in its
case beside him.
Along with the spinning rods, my
father wanted to use the outriggers to
troll with crippled spoons. Here follows
what happens on many trips when real
fathers and sons try to make up for lost
years in a single morning: neither of us
could manage to lower the outrigger
lines, a seemingly simple task for one
practical mechanic and one Ph.D., and
we spent most of our allotted time
catching sunnies—bluegills, to be charitable—on worms along the far, grasschoked shore.
We were having fun, though. I was
buoyant at the throttle, concentrating
not on signs of fish but on potential
marine disasters. It occurred to me, too,
that even though there was plenty of
water, my father wanted me to drive because his eyesight was beginning to fail
him. I had to tie on a few of his hooks.
Like his own father, he’s a big man, but
much of his bulk has fallen prey to gravity, leaving his upper body stooped, mottled. He’s a hard drinker, for whom beer
doesn’t count as drinking on those days
he needs to stay sober. Rather than ask
my father why he’d never taken me fishing, I asked why my grandfather hadn’t.
“We had our differences,” he said over
the outboard. He picked up my rod case,
unzipped it, and slid out the sleeve. Sodden with sunnies, we’d moved on to
trolling with long, heavily weighted lines
secured along the gunwales. “I was twen-
ty-one,” he continued, opening the sleeve, as he selected a yellow streamer and
“and owned my own business, and I hired began tying it on. “He used that money
the old man to keep my books.” My father to open the fly shop. He ran clinics for
had expressed doubt that a five-piece kids. But I’m afraid the distance between
rod could properly cast a fly, but now he us got in the way of his relationship with
joined the ferrules, waggled the rod, and you, too.”
nodded. As solitary and self-fulfilling as
He spit and tightened his knot.
fishing can be, we all seek approval for
“This is one of his flies,” he said,
having accomplished something. That’s handing me the case. “They all are. I
why fishermen lie. We need to accom- want you to have them.” Inside was a
plish something, and few people beyond storm of bright feathered things.
our fishing friends are willing to count
“Thanks,” I managed.
the proper identification of a bug as an
“You should never hit your father.”
accomplishment. This behavior is comI slowed so he could troll with the fly.
pounded, of course, for sons before their “Then don’t make me mad,” I said.
fathers. A man may know that his father
“What?”
left his wife and children in difficult cir“Sorry.”
cumstances, and not hear from that father
He handed the fly rod to me to work
for years save for the occasional, boozy along the pumping station.
postcard written in
the third person, but
he will still hold his
breath while awaiting his father’s verdict on almost everything he does.
“One day,” my
father said, fitting
my reel to its seat
and stringing the
leader through the
guides, “I discovered my father had
borrowed ten thousand dollars withFrom Thomas Sedgwick Steele, Canoe & Camera
out asking. When I
(New York: Orange Judd Company, 1880), 90.
confronted him, he
got defensive. The
old man didn’t know shit about business.
One week later, after leaving my
Still, he knew enough to know that you daughter with my mother, I returned to
don’t take a man’s money.”
my grandfather’s water. He belonged to a
The bow rose and dropped. I pumped fishing club that owns a stretch of the
my hand on the throttle to relieve the South Branch at the end of Ken
cramp.
Lockwood Gorge. I parked along the dirt
“Even so,” he said, “I told him all he road just past the cable that crossed the
had to do was ask.” He waited for me to river and divided private from public. If
nod. “My father didn’t want to listen to I couldn’t wade in the same pool as he
that, so I grew even hotter. I went across had, I could see it. The section I’d fish
the street and got drunk.”
didn’t look far removed from my homeMy father dipped into his tackle box town Poudre in miniature, curving
and produced a handsome, metal fly upstream around a deadfall-blocked
case. He peered inside it.
bend. It was 20 feet across, and fast, with
“I came back a couple of hours later, modest runs and pocket pools. This haland the old man was still unapologetic, lowed water was anorexic. Sun sparkled
so I popped him one.” He looked up at in the riffles. I rigged my rod in the
me and smiled a little sadly. He shook his shade, tying on a size 16 Copper John, a
head. “I was just a kid, do you under- fly that had worked wonders all season,
stand me?” We looked at each other for a compensating for many of my clumsy
moment. Behind his glasses, my father’s moments. It was only later that I realized
eyes were red around the rims. I nodded the attractor’s flash was all wrong for this
again, even though I wasn’t sure then clear, summer stretch of water. Now,
that I did understand him. I’d tried for though, I was alone in the woods on a
years to not be afraid of my father.
Monday afternoon.
“He never forgave me,” my father
No matter how many times I remind
said, returning to the fly case. “No mat- myself to slow down, to plan, to observe,
ter what I did. . . . ” His voice was I often rush into rivers. This was no
momentarily lost in the noise of the boat exception. The water was swimmingSPRING 2005
3
pool warm, not a happy state of things
for trout. I felt it in my knees, as I hadn’t
packed waders for the trip east in the
interest of traveling as lightly as I could.
Traveling lightly meant four bags plus
what my wife and I could strap to the
baby’s back. Since my daughter was
born, I’ve been preparing for our first
fishing trip together, grilling other
fathers about how young their children
were when they first took them. In short,
I should’ve known a family man never
travels lightly and at least packed boots.
My first step on the rocky bed in sandals
nearly sent me pinwheeling.
Regaining composure—and for me,
achieving a sense of unalloyed composure that may, someday, feel like grace, is
what fly fishing promises—I told myself
it didn’t matter if I caught a fish. I always
think that on my way to go fishing, even
as getting skunked always calls this bluff
on the ride home. I loaded my rod and
cast above the seam alongside a large
boulder, upstream and to my left. My
leader was pulled beneath the surface,
and the fly dragged to my feet. I took a
breath, false cast, and fired upstream of
the same boulder, adding an “S” curve to
the unlooping line. This resulted in a few
blessed feet of drag-free drift, but the fly
continued downstream unmolested. I
tried the seam a few more times, as I’ve
sometimes caught trout in a likely location through doggedness alone. I had to
teach myself how to fish, which is to say it
took an inordinate number of casts to
realize that if I wanted to trick a trout in
this water, I’d have to tie on a skinnier
leader.
I fished methodically, upstream left to
right, working the boulders, seams, and
deadfall. Something crashed in the
woods, and I felt like I was being
watched. I hoped it was a bear, something readily explainable. The cable
across the river was getting further
behind me. I cast, almost desperately,
and looked over my shoulder. I was
spooked by a crayfish. A pool before a
downed tree held two small browns that
darted from my approach. Moments
later, one shot between my legs.
I concentrated on stealth. The water
was tired, so I moved further upstream
until I happened upon a good trout
holding in a pocket. My nymph wasn’t
working. There was no hatch to match,
so I tied on a size 14 Royal Wulff and
dead-drifted it over the fish. In a flash,
the trout nosed the fly, then returned to
its place among the rocks. I tried a few
more passes before switching to an
Adams and settling on a caddis. Nothing, including a few rough casts, budged
it. I’d like to report here that my alwaysimproving skills, patience, and creativity
finally brought this fish to hand. That’s
the usual happy ending. But this trout, at
least, was not a sentimental one. It didn’t
care about my grandfather, my father, or
me.
Here, in refracted light, was a reminder that fish and the waters that hold
them have little use for us. It’s we who
need them. A river was something the
men in my family could agree on, and
because of that, became the thing we
couldn’t share. The consequences of a
life without family fishing continue to
manifest themselves in clumsy casts,
missed strikes, and fishless days.
But those are the least of my worries.
This is a fish story without a lot of fish.
These are people I’m trying to tease to
the surface.
"
Blair Oliver teaches literature and creative writing at Front Range Community
College in Fort Collins, Colorado, where
he’s also the founding editor of Front
Range Review, a national literary magazine. His work has been published in Red
Rock Review, Yale Anglers’ Journal, Iron
Horse Literary Review, Talking River
Review, CutBank, and elsewhere. His
essays on fly fishing appear in a regular
column in Yellowstone Journal.
From Dean Sage et al., Salmon and Trout (New York:
The Macmillan Company, 1904), frontispiece.
4
THE AMERICAN FLY FISHER
The Condor and Grizzly Inheritance
by Edward G. Davis
Photos taken by the author
The author tying on a Condor and Grizzly at streamside.
Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit.
And perhaps some day it shall please us to remember these things.
!Virgil, The Aeneid
W
HY DO TROUT FREQUENTLY rise
to, and accept, the esoteric pattern? Does hunger and the conditioned reflex often overcome caution?
Or are there other phenomena about the
attractor patterns that remain unanswered?
The Condor and Grizzly dressing proceeded from the fertile imagination of
my friend Jack Finchley. It had likely been
one of a number of winter projects.
Finchley knew the Pebble Grove water
in Québec as I know the contents of my
tie rack. He could ferret out large browns
at high noon with predetermined accuracy. I have witnessed his ability to determine the holding positions that wild
brown trout select. These sites were virtually always associated with some large
deflector in the flow of water—perhaps a
rock, boulder, or deadfall. Finchley emphasized the need for ultracaution when
This story was originally published in the
May/June 1984 issue of Flyfishing Magazine
(Oregon), then in the Summer 1985 issue of
Double Haul (the official publication of the Izaak
Walton Fly Fisherman’s Club).
approaching these sites. I have observed
him motionless and with a low profile.
He would discuss the qualities of the
brown trout at the proverbial drop of a
fishing hat, including his theses about
why strict nocturnal feeding is a myth
without supporting evidence. Finchley
insisted that wild brown trout indulge in
a graded range of sequence, with the
largest fish often located slightly upstream of the other brown trout in the
grouping. This hypothesis often predisposed him to fish across and downstream with a deep sinking nymph.
Finchley, like many of us, liked to catch
the larger trout.
But today as he approached one of
our club water’s more productive pools
and placed his rod aside, I detected the
aura of another of Finchley’s impending
pronouncements.
“They come in high,” he announced,
with the convincing air of understatement.
“What is meant by high?” I asked.
Finchley proceeded to explain his current theory that trout will approach and
obtain food according to the way their
natural diet presents itself in the stream.
“They get used to feeding a certain way,”
he remarked.
“How so?” I inquired, noting that his
creel looked weighty this ten o’clock
morning.
“Elementary,” answered Finchley, who
had the reputation with our seven club
members as an innovator of esoteric patterns that could cause trout to blanch in
terror. “If the food forms float high, the
trout become conditioned to breaking
the surface with typical dry fly action,”
he continued. “This means that they do
not bulge as when feeding on nymphs. It
also means that you can miss setting the
hook with a dry fly that sits well down in
the surface film.”
“Are you saying that trout are creatures of habit,” I inquired, “and that if the
imitation sits too low in the film, and
does not imitate the way in which the
natural dun floats in a particular stream,
the point of the hook—in this case—will
pass below their lower jaw?”
“Exactly,” replied Finchley, with the
solemnity of a bishop presiding over a
consecration. “The trout become used to
SPRING 2005
5
the food forms in their environment.
They can also detect differences between
hard and soft foods,” he continued, eyeing me as one who is a novice to trout
lore and freestone diet. “I have designed
the Condor and Grizzly,” Finchley continued, “to represent the same hardness
as the majority of food forms in this
water. If the material of which the natural is composed is significantly harder or
softer than the deceiver, the wise trout
will quickly eject the imitation.”
Pondering this hypothesis for a moment raised the question in my mind
about the hardness of the steel hook, and
why this condition would not be cause
for rejection of the artificial by the fish. I
was about to remark about this point
when Finchley presented me with three
of his exquisitely dressed creations. They
were meticulously crafted, and the stiffness of the cock hackle was outstanding.
I could not bring myself to attempt to
refute his theories. Possibly the tranquillity of the early June morning had disarmed me. Or perhaps I subconsciously
detected the need to think about his
claims more fully before rejecting Finchley’s hypothesis.
The morning was bright but with
small clouds billowing in genie shapes,
and with just a hint of haze when viewing a distant scene. A blue jay scolded me
for entering his territory. One small
metallic-green dragonfly was developing
an obsession with the tip of my fly rod.
I sat on a fallen tree trunk near the
upper reaches of our club water about
12:30 P.M. After consuming a sandwich
and packing a pipe, it seemed an appropriate time to examine Finchley’s latest
product from the vise. I must confess to
so neatly four or five centuries ago: the fault does
not lie in the stars but in
myself. Or words to that
effect. At any rate, because
there was a small backwater near my feet, I casually
dropped one of Finchley’s
unattached Condor and
Grizzly patterns into the
water. My curiosity was
piqued about how high
this dry fly would float
above the film. The fly
landed on its feet or grizA 1956 Québec fishing license, the year of the Condor
zly hackle, and then setand Grizzly experiment. It was issued by the sporting
tled onto the forked badgoods department of Henry Morgan and Co. Ltd.
ger hair tails. I noted that
and cost $1.10.
the tails were longer than
usual and tilted down slightly. The fly The fly should therefore sit high about
floated high enough to keep the bend of the surface film. And the condor barbule, wound on edge, makes for a very
the hook out of the water.
Then my attention was diverted from realistic mayfly body,” Wilson added.
“And they come in high,” I said.
the floating fly by movement down“They what . . . oh yes; I see what you
stream. And I saw Nelson Wilson moving quietly upwater at river’s edge. mean,” Wilson laughed. “Were there any
Watching Wilson, and noting the ab- further claims for this style of dry-fly
sence of a petty contriving for technique, dressing?”
I repeated Finchley’s theory about the
one instinctively knew that he had been
doing this for a long time. It’s a strange hardness or relative softness of food in
world, I reflected; we are currently being the trout’s diet.
There was the beginning of an afterinvaded by the technique-oriented specialists. But here is a fly fisher whose noon rise upstream. Three trout were
casting is endowed with ease and grace. working at the surface of a pool about 40
Nothing could have appeared more feet above our location at streamside.
unrehearsed. Wilson projected the Two of the fish appeared to be 10 or 12
inches long. But the trout that was feedimage of having been born to it all.
Returning my attention to the little ing near the juncture of a small but
backwater eddy, I observed Finchley’s fly steady-flowing spring entrance to the
escaping into the mainstream current of main river looked more substantial. The
water where, slowly at first, the current rise forms were of the suction variety
began to exert its swift influence on the with a residue of small bubbles. The
fly. It moved with increasing water was deep and quiet at that location
speed downstream parallel- on the stream surface.
Wilson, at my suggestion, tied a
ing the bank. Thinking that
Wilson would be able to Condor and Grizzly to his tippet. I
retrieve the Condor and watched him move quietly to a position
Grizzly, I was about to hail midstream where his backcast would
him when the fly disap- clear the trees. Wilson studied the large
peared in a swirl created trout rising upstream for, what seemed
downstream. I saw the fare- to me, an inordinately long time.
“He is lying below the surface and
well wave of the tail of a fish
crest the surface of the drifting back with the food to examine it
closely,” Wilson remarked. “This fish is
water.
Wilson waded upstream not swimming directly up to the fly,” he
and eased onto a log at added.
I watched Wilson wipe his leader
water’s edge. He had obJack Finchley soon changed the forked tails from
served the rise to Finchley’s clean so that it would not lie on top of
badger hair to elk hair. The fly dressings are by the
fly, but was not aware of the the surface film on this bright sunny day.
author. Finchley insisted upon scarlet tying thread.
background details. I ex- Releasing line slowly and keeping the tip
confidence in the nonesoteric and est- tracted a second Condor and Grizzly of his fly rod to the side in order to keep
ablished fish-producing artificials of the from my fly box and gave it to Wilson a low profile with the rod, he began to
season. Not for me the unexplored— while updating him about Finchley’s lat- cast and slowly release line. Each cast
placed the fly approximately one foot
except in the realm of streamers. The old est claims.
Quill Gordon, March Brown, and HenWilson looked closely at the fly. “The further upstream. Wilson did not false
drickson offer me sufficient challenge at hackle is oversized,” he commented, cast to dry the fly. The trout took the
the tying table. Perhaps as the Bard put it “and the twin tails longer than normal. Condor and Grizzly on the fourth cast.
6
THE AMERICAN FLY FISHER
Wilson positioned the rod to one side, to see if the trout could be induced to
rod tip about one foot above the surface move. And this fish did move, but not
of the water, and then tightened up to set more, according to Wilson later, than 12
the hook. The trout began to bore inches. He was stubborn and dogged in
upstream with a steady and dogged de- attitude, and who knows how much he
termination. Suddenly the fish changed weighed. My watch announced that the
direction 90 degrees to the left and sur- time was 2:03 P.M. with a quiet imperfaced. I say “he” because I caught a sonal dignity. And then I heard Wilson’s
glimpse of the hooked jaw. I also noted groan of disapproval and observed his
the long wide flank and enormous tail. rod return to the straight position. He
There was a wave of water the like of reeled in slowly and, after examining the
which I have rarely observed in freshwa- fly, waded across stream and sat on the
ter fishing. Wilson’s reel steadily released bank beside me.
line, and he began to
wade upstream—following the trout.
About 20 yards
above the location
where the trout rose,
spring water entered
near a large boulder
on the left bank. An
abutment of rock was
located on the right
bank. Just downstream of the rocky
abutment on the right
bank, there is an overhanging ledge of no
small proportion. The
water is deep here—
perhaps 12 to 16 feet.
It is also shaded on
Nelson Wilson, like most fly fishers, is often
this side of the stream
surrounded by scenic beauty.
bank by coniferous
growth, much of which overhangs the
“Take a glimmer at this,” Wilson
top of the high bank.
requested, handing me the tippet of his
The trout turned and headed for this leader.
deep and sun-protected pool. Wilson
The barbless hook was almost
managed to retrieve the backing and a straight. It was a case of one of those
considerable portion of the fly line.
hooks that evades detection by the hook
It seemed appropriate for me to walk maker and the fly dresser. I muttered
through the trees along the north side of some comment to the effect that once
the stream. I knew that Wilson would again, the concept of zero defects failed
not object to my watching the play. But I to recognize that people are not perfect.
made certain not to distract his attention
“Well,” I said, “two down and one to
from this trout. I sat quietly on the left go.”
bank, some distance behind my com“Two down and what to go?” asked
panion, and unsnapped the flap on the Wilson.
camera’s protective case.
“Two Condor and Grizzlies lost, and
The fish sought depth in the pool. one remaining in my fly box,” I anThis move by the trout enabled Wilson swered.
to retrieve more of the fly line as he
“Really,” replied Wilson, “this experiwaded to a more appropriate position.
ment was interesting. But the evening
I glanced at my watch. It was 1:49 P.M. rise will likely be to March Browns.”
Wilson’s rod remained in a static arc. As Wilson left to return to the cabin and the
accurately as I could observe, the line tying vise to prepare March Browns for
was not moving in any direction. I his evening fishing.
leaned back and settled in to watch.
With the faint hope of matching
A porcupine revealed his presence by Wilson’s recent performance, I opened
changing position on the left bank about my fly box, selected the remaining
50 feet upstream. A queen bee made Condor and Grizzly, and tied it to a 4X
overtures to the toe of my left wading tippet. Wading slowly upstream and surboot. Heat bugs made soft summer veying a glassy, unbroken stretch of
sounds.
water, I began by working the tailwater
Wilson had braced his feet for a long of the pool. Several casts later, an 8-inch
battle. I observed an occasional side-pull rainbow greedily attacked the fly and
hooked itself. I could not, I suppose, expect a repeat performance. But in the
process of dreaming about another spectacular fish, I allowed this little fellow full
rein. It was—to put it mildly—a mistake.
I knew that the log was there. And I was
reminded about the deadfall after he
wound my leader through some branches
midway along the underwater obstruction.
I finally had to break off and, in the
process, lost the third Condor and Grizzly.
Three strikes and you’re out, I chided
myself.
There were no rises
now, and I therefore
changed the reel spool
to facilitate use of a
sinking tip line and
tied a nymph to the
tippet. For about half
an hour, I continued
upstream, half concentrating on fishing,
casting mechanically,
and reminiscing about
the loss of Wilson’s
giant brown trout. It
would be wise to start
back to the city a little
early, I decided, and
avoid the traffic.
Arriving back at
the cabin, I disjointed, wiped, and packed
my rod. And there
was Wilson, visible through the front
window, hunched over the tying vise.
The expression on Wilson’s face resembled that of a Bulgarian werewolf.
I entered the cabin to collect a few
unmentionables. “Leaving now,” I announced. “See you next weekend.”
“Fine,” Wilson replied absently. “These
tails are too short.”
“What are you tying?” I asked, easing
open the screen door on my way out.
“Oh, er, I thought that I would, er, try
my hand at a Condor and Grizzly,” admitted Wilson sheepishly.
“Be careful,” I remarked in a cautioning tone. “Remember, they come in
high.” The spring tension of the screen
door protected me from a well-aimed
damp wading sock.
I walked through the reddish glow of
the late afternoon sun to the car parked
beside the old sand road.
"
Ed Davis has contributed about forty
articles to fly-fishing journals and, in 1991,
authored a book, Patterns and Places
(Winchester Press). In 1993 he received the
Gregory Clark Award in recognition for
outstanding contributions to fly fishing.
SPRING 2005
7
Panic and Whiskey in Iceland
by Ed Migdalski
Tom Migdalski
The author and his granddaughter, Maggie Migdalski,
holding the author’s replica of his Grimsa 12-pounder.
A
LONG WITH BEING a professional
ichthyologist at Yale University
over the many years, my life has
been remarkably enriched by an insatiable indulgence in fly fishing—an
unusual combination of academic discipline in fisheries science and worldwide
sportfishing. In that respect, I am extremely fortunate to have been presented
with opportunities to subdue with rod
and reel the lordliest of all fish that can
be lured to take an artificial fly: the
Atlantic salmon, Salmo salar.
The circumstances under which I
fished differed as widely as the waterways
where I spent long hours casting and
searching for Atlantic salmon in some of
the globe’s most renowned rivers running through parts of Québec, New
Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Newfoundland,
Labrador, Russia, and Iceland. Especially
in Iceland, where for a period of twenty
successive seasons through the generous
8
THE AMERICAN FLY FISHER
tutelage of longtime friend, Foster Bam,
I fought salmon, while on occasion my
antics were witnessed by my son Tom
with his cameras or Foster’s pretty wife,
Sallie Baldwin, with her lovely smile.
The rapid-heartbeat and shiveringknees adventures caused by head-shaking salmon in dangerous river structures
provided exciting fodder for storytelling
at cocktail time, but one of the most
memorable occasions for which I have a
visible, constant reminder happened
after one particular salmon was conquered and safely netted in Iceland’s
Grimsa River. The Grimsa’s 12 miles hold
sixty pools reserved for eight or ten lodge
guests. One guide and his car are
assigned to each pair of anglers, and a
rotation system of morning and afternoon fishing on different sections is followed. I love everything about that river,
both its ruggedness and tranquil beauty,
but never did I expect this spectacular
water, flowing through pockmarked volcanic rock and intensely green valleys, to
produce a salmon that first caused me a
sweating panic and then keen delight
forever after.
While working my favorite pool,
Stringir, marked number thirty, located
within a gorgeous stretch of scenery
including snowcapped mountains in the
background, a 12-pound salmon, pushing surface water, clamped onto the fly
and zipped off line as I, with aid of my
wading staff, stumbled in pursuit over
dangerous, slippery, irregularly ridged
structures.
After explosive exchanges between rod
and salmon, and encouraging yells from
Foster, the fish was netted a quarter mile
downriver through the heroic effort of
our favorite guide, Sveinbjorn Blondel,
whom everyone calls Sven. As Tom photographed that salmon in the net at the
river’s edge, I admired its well-shaped
Foster Bam
Playing the salmon as Sven prepares the net at the Stringir pool.
body and aggressive hooked jaws—a
male fish that returned to its home river
after feeding voraciously for a couple of
years in the sea.
Because of the magnificent aerial acrobatics displayed by this beauty and my
pleasure of having constructed the fly, a
Hairy Mary #10, that he took in a swirl
on the water’s surface, I fell in love with
that fish. Instead of releasing it, I decided
to take this specimen home; it would
make a memorable trophy. Consequently, I gave Sven explicit instructions on how to place the trophy in the
lodge freezer.
The custom at the Grimsa is to angle a
half-day at the end of the fishing week on
Sunday morning, the day of departure
for the Kevflavic airport. Fishing until
the last moment always creates a problem: time-consuming struggling from
chest waders, peeling off thermal underwear, reorganizing other paraphernalia,
and then dismantling rods while packing
duffel bags to be ready when the minibus
arrives to pick up the anglers.
At the conclusion of our fishing, Sven
retrieved my pride and joy from the
freezer and delivered it to my room,
where I was prepared to incorporate it
into my luggage. As I did, I found to my
dismay that that the salmon’s tail end of
about 7 inches protruded beyond the
confines of the canvas traveling bag.
Meanwhile, close by my bedroom window in the crowded parking area,
Magnus, the bus driver, was exhorting
the guides to load the luggage. Time was
growing short for departure. To search
for a Styrofoam box, tape, and twine to
accommodate the salmon was out of the
question. I panicked. To settle my anxiety, I finished the last shot of bourbon
real nut. I inserted the tail into the long
plastic bag with the body of the salmon,
rewrapped it all with several layers of
newspaper, and secluded it into a set of
insulated underwear. Then I smiled as
the bag zippered up without a hitch.
Sven carried my rods and other bags
to the bus, in which sat impatient passengers. I lugged the last piece, containing the salmon, to the lodge door as fast
as I could. Then I slowed and nonchalantly placed the heavy bag on the platform. As I straightened up, I could feel
the sweat break out on my forehead.
The salmon arrived home still frozen.
Several months later, I prepared the salmon for molding in plaster. First, positioning the fish in a bed of wet, fine sand,
I pressed the tail end tightly against the
body from which it had been severed,
and then flowed the plaster over it.
Because of the medicinal benefits of
Tennessee whiskey that Sunday morning
in Iceland, I turned a seemingly acute
disaster into a successful event. The plastic replica of my trophy fish, cast from
the plaster mold, shows a distinct vertical
wound across its caudal peduncle, a
blemish I could have repaired, but I did
not do so because it brings a happy
memory when I view that scarred reproduction of my 12-pounder and recall the
morning of panic on the banks of the
Grimsa.
"
from the bottle, sitting like a lifesaving
lighthouse on the dresser, and made a
decision. I pulled off my pants, shoes,
and socks, placed the salmon in the bathtub, and with pocketknife in hand, followed the salmon into the tub. On my
knees, with towel over the ice-cold fish, I
frantically began the tough job of sawing
off the tail end of the frozen trophy.
While the fish scales were sprinkling
over the bottom of the tub, I finally cut
through the skin, meat, and backbone.
Just then, I heard Foster, standing by the
Ed Migdalski, retired ichthyologist,
bus, yell to Sven, who was waiting at the Natural History Museum scientist, and
loading platform with the other guides outdoor educator at Yale University has
to say goodbye, “Where the hell is Ed? He fished extensively around the globe. He is
must be goofing off somewhere as the author of nine books and about 150
usual.”
journal and magazine articles.
I expected the knock on my door. I
shouted, “Come in, Sven.” He opened the
door and exclaimed to the empty room,
“How did you know it was me?” I
replied, “I’m psychic. I’m in the bathtub.
Come on in, I need your help.” He approached hesitantly and peeked in as I
stood in the tub with the
Tom Migdalski
salmon’s tail in one hand,
the knife in the other,
and the rest of the fish at
my feet. Before I could
explain, he stared at me,
gulped, and softly said,
“Yayzus.”
After I told him not to
call Foster because I
hadn’t lost my mind, I
commissioned him to
clean up the mess before
the fish scales dried and
stuck to the tub. Otherwise, the maids would
quickly spread the news The blemish shows distinctly where the tail end was cut.
that Mr. Migdalski was a
SPRING 2005
9
To Alaska with Love,
or Diary of a Fishing Wife
by Fanny Krieger
Photos by Mel Krieger
Tundra, small trees, and mountains around Ugashik Lake—the view from the camp.
I
HAD BEEN MARRIED to an expert fisherman for twenty years. Many fishing
trips have been conceived at our
house. My husband Mel and his friends
get together, a hot spot is mentioned, the
date is set, and the adventure is on.
Serving coffee and cake, I have listened
to tales of fish and fun in places like
Argentina, New Zealand, Alaska, and
Montana. These exotic trips have always
seemed to be a “male” thing. Although I
do fish occasionally and have even gone
through the Fenwick fly-fishing schools,
I was never invited on a really serious
trip.
Early this year, Jim and Paige Myers
invited Mel and several fishermen to
sample the fishing on their property on
Ugashik Lake in Alaska. Another fishing
experience for men only! Three weeks
before departure, Paige extended the
invitation to me. Now was my chance to
This article originally appeared in the Fall/Winter
1978 issue of Angler magazine.
10
THE AMERICAN FLY FISHER
take part in the ritual and mystique of a
fly-fishing expedition.
Our Alaska adventure was everything
in its preparation and anticipation that I
had envied on so many other trips. This
time, though, I was involved: I had my
own 81⁄2-foot graphite rod complete with
a size 6 floating line; various sinking
shooting heads; a brand-new vest loaded
with clippers, scissors, tippet material,
leaders in different sizes, a small scale,
Cutter repellent for the mosquitos, and,
of course, three separate boxes of flies—
dry flies, nymphs, and streamers, most of
which I did not know by name. Finding
waders to fit my 5-foot, 2-inch stature
proved a bit more challenging (manufacturers had yet to design waders for
women). We finally found a pair at a
local specialty shop. With a new fishing
hat adorned with several attractive flies
and lots of warm clothes, I was prepared.
We spent our first day in Anchorage, a
town of the old west surrounded by
majestic snowcapped mountains. We got
our fishing licenses from J. C. Penney’s
tackle department. A gourmet dinner
with friends at the Captain Cook Hotel
completed our day.
From Anchorage, we boarded a Wien
Air Alaska plane the next morning for a
one-hour flight to King Salmon on the
Alaska Peninsula, the starting point for
many fishing and hunting camps. When
we landed on a small airstrip, it was
windy, and a gray mist hovered over a
barely paved road that led to the main
hotel, two bars and semirestaurants, and
the general store. Our chartered flight to
Ugashik would depart as soon as the
only pilot returned from another flight.
We met the rest of the Myers’s guests at a
restaurant called the Fireside Inn. Axel,
originally from Germany and now living
in Houston, was a pleasant fellow, who
was really looking forward to his first
trip to Alaska; Dieter, who owned a
restaurant in Vancouver, was serious and
eager; Dieter’s friends Connie and Dora
completed the group. Connie, a spry
man of seventy-four, and Dora were
from Oregon. They were veterans of
many fishing trips and a bit critical of
this gray, delayed beginning. All of them
were spin fishermen.
Our pilot finally checked in. Orin, a
part-owner of Peninsular Airlines,
loaded the Widgeon, a small float plane,
with the six of us, our fishing gear, sleeping bags, duffel bags, gasoline, and supplies for our camp.
The mist and wind persisted all the
way to Ugashik. We flew at about five
hundred feet above ground and spotted
moose, caribou, and white swans in the
expanse of tundra and water. Forty-five
minutes and roughly 125 miles later, the
Widgeon landed on Ugashik Lake and
taxied to the shore, one hundred feet
from the cabins. The Myers came out to
greet us, help with our luggage, and
usher us to our lodgings.
The cabins were small. The front
room in the main cabin was a combination sitting room and kitchen, with a big
table and several chairs. The back room
had eight bunks and a shower stall. The
next building was a Quonset hut that
housed a large boat, a couple of freezers,
and a generator. A small outhouse, “the
Tilton Hilton,” stood at a precarious
angle next to it. The last building was a
one-room cabin with four bunk beds, a
stove, and a sink. Mel and I shared this
cabin with Connie and Dora. We each
laid out our sleeping bags on a bunk
and stuffed our duffel bags underneath. It was a living quarter for
four people—Dora and Connie preferred to share one bunk bed and
store their bags on the other. There
was no hot water, and the stove had
a mind of its own. We went back to
the main cabin, where a fire had
been built, and relaxed in warmth
and comfort.
Sunday was our first day of fishing in Alaska. We took a walk along
the lake, south to the Narrows. As its
name suggests, the Narrows is a
stretch of water that connects the
Upper and Lower Ugashik Lakes.
The Narrows figures in fishing
records for producing the largest
grayling in North America (4
pounds, 6 ounces). The water was
thick with bright red salmon churning and breaking the surface noisily
on the way to their spawning beds.
Mel pointed out the males, with
their large heads and hooked jaws. I
became very excited and wanted to
fish, but Mel explained that at this
time of the year, the salmon had
been in fresh water too long to be
desirable as a sport or a food fish.
The sky was heavy with clouds
and the wind was strong, making
casting very difficult. I practiced my
double haul before the trip and was
ready to test it. I put on a medium sinking shooting head and a black streamer.
The wading was not precarious, but I
could feel the cold water through my
waders.
I was instructed earlier to make short
casts in the pool. This was a good thing,
because I could not keep control of my
line in the strong wind. In a few minutes,
I hooked my first fish. It was the first
grayling of the day, so it was greeted with
much enthusiasm by everyone. The fish
weighed about 2 pounds. Suddenly I was
much warmer and ready for more.
Several casts with the same fly brought
several more graylings, most weighing 2
pounds, some slightly heavier. Was this
beginner’s luck? Whatever, it was OK.
After lunch, we changed places. The
Myerses ferried us around in their two
small boats. I was dropped off at a spot
across the Narrows, and Mel and Axel
took off to the mouth of the lower lake.
I learned from this morning’s fishing to
put on another layer of clothes, a heavier
pair of socks, and woolen gloves, and—
just in case—to bring my little scale. It
was still misty and windy, but casting
was more comfortable now. I changed to
a floating line as I saw graylings near the
surface of the water. I started off with a
Black Marabou Muddler. The graylings,
Fanny with an arctic char.
their dorsal fins wide open in the water,
remained cooperative and continued to
strike easily. Suddenly, my rod was bent
over with a good fish. The pull was
stronger than it was before; the play for
the fish lasted longer. I landed it eagerly:
22 inches, 31⁄2 pounds.
The spin fishermen in our group did
not do well. The graylings seemed to be
taking flies over lures. So, Mel rigged up
for them pieces of driftwood to which he
attached leaders of about 3 feet with flies
at the end.
I was very tired at night, but felt so
good. I resolved to learn more about the
science of fly fishing. My introduction
was productive and exciting, but all that
occurred was basically accidental. Just as
I needed to perfect my casting, I had to
understand the different line–leader–
tippet combinations, the intricacies of
the many fly manipulations, and the various presentations and retrieves related
to the different waters. I needed also to
get the feel of the connection with the
fish. It had been a thrill just catching
fish, but I wanted to learn more about
fishing.
On Monday the sky was still cloudy,
but the wind was low, and it was warmer
than the day before. While breakfast was
being prepared, I cast a black nymph
right in front of the main cabin and
hooked a 2-pound grayling. What a
way to start a day.
We left for the other side of the
Narrows for our morning’s fishing.
Everyone caught 2- and 3-pound
graylings. I took some time out to
watch Mel fish. He decided to try for
the Dolly Varden. Using a floating
line and a bright steelhead fly, he
cast slightly downstream very carefully around the rocks and riffles.
He moved constantly downstream,
catching several Dolly Varden in the
2- to 3-pound class and many of the
bright red salmon. It was interesting
to note how carefully Mel released
the fish. He stood in shallow water
while he took the hook out of the
mouth of the fish—the fish still in
the water—with a pair of hemostats. On a few occasions, after he
brought the fish near the shore for
photographs, with both hands he
then gently held the fish in the water
facing the current, until the fish was
able to swim away. Most of the time
it took just a minute or two, but
occasionally five or ten minutes
were required.
It was now time for me to fish. I
put on a small dry fly, a #12 Horner
Deer Hair, and cast it slightly
upstream. I watched it carefully
float down and felt the skip of a
SPRING 2005
11
Fanny with a rainbow.
heartbeat as a grayling rose out of the
water to strike my fly. I knew now to
strike back gently and to lead the fish
toward me. The steps included picking
the fish out of the water, admiring it,
unhooking it, weighing larger ones, and
finally, gently and carefully releasing it.
After several big graylings on dry flies,
I switched back to a black streamer, cast
it farther away, and watched the line drift
downstream. Almost every time the line
arced at the end of the drift, a fish
attacked the fly, the hook was set, and
the play was on. The fast action continued until midafternoon. Lots of photographs were taken of the large
graylings. Mel and I each caught a 4pound grayling. I began to feel like an
expert.
We took a short lunch break and
decided to try another location: the
mouth of the Narrows in the lower lake.
Here fishing was very slow, but the
scenery was spectacular. A large range of
snow-covered peaks rose far to the
south; to the north lay the Upper
Ugashik Lake. Beyond the lake towered a
snowcapped volcano, while next to it a
smaller volcano still smoldered from an
earlier eruption. Flocks of geese and
ducks dotted the blue and orange sky.
Once I saw a red fox on the shore, but
there was no sign of bears. We fished
until dark, which was about 8:30 P.M.
Mel caught a beautiful 71⁄2-pound Dolly
Varden, a strong fish with orange spots all
over. The fish fought for nearly thirty
minutes.
The rain and cold came back on
Tuesday. We decided to brave the elements to cross the Narrows. Fish were
feeding actively, but the cold numbed
12
THE AMERICAN FLY FISHER
my wet hands. It was still raining and
blowing when we returned to the cabin
to tie flies and to resume our endless
conversations of fishing. In the evening,
Mel tied a supply of Sky Komish
Sunrises, the bright yellow, orange, and
white steelhead fly that caught his big
Dolly the day before.
Wednesday, the clouds were gone, but
a cold wind blew fiercely. We spent the
day reading, talking, eating, drinking,
and learning to tie flies.
The next afternoon, Axel, Mel, and I
fished the Narrows. The graylings, displaying their dorsal fins and flashing
shades of blue and gold, remained easy
targets. Those caught still consistently
ranged up to 4 pounds.
Saturday morning brought the arrival
of two longtime friends: Ed Rice, the
head of International Anglers Exposition, and Hal Janssen, the sales manager for Sunset Line and Twine. Their
excitement took over as soon as their
plane landed. Hal shouted and gestured
to fish right then and there.
Monday morning we packed a lunch
and went north on Ugashik Lake in two
boats to explore French’s Lake, a small
lake about 3 miles from our lodge. It was
our first trip on the lake. The day was
sunny and warm, and the water was unbelievably clear and calm, shining like an
immense black and silver mirror.
Formations of ducks and geese flew over
us. Hal was the first to spot graylings. We
stopped and caught a good many fish
that were about 11⁄2 to 3 pounds.
At French’s Lake, Mel landed a lake
trout, a Dolly Varden, and a grayling, all
in thirty minutes at the same spot. In
one of the inlets to the lake, we saw some
very large fish swimming lazily. The men
wondered whether they were Dollys,
lake trout, pike, or silver salmon, and all
three worked hard to catch one, but to
no avail. The wind came up, the sky
clouded over, and it got cold. We decided to return to the cabins before the
waves became too treacherous.
Around 5:00 P.M., we crossed the
Narrows to my favorite grayling hole,
where I’d caught my largest fish. My first
cast with a grasshopper brought a 31⁄2pounder. Four more casts produced four
Working a grayling.
more fish. Ed was busy hooking red
salmon and graylings. The wind rose
once again, and with it came the rain.
Abruptly, fish stopped striking. I returned to the cabin and my warm sleeping bag. It was a good time to be alone
with my diary and to read Tisha, a book
about Alaska. The rain continued to
pour, but the hardy fellows stayed out
until dark.
Tuesday was a lovely day. The rain
and winds were gone. Even the pesty little black gnats disappeared. The quiet
waters promised good fishing. We started at the Dolly Varden hole. The fish,
hungry after the storm, took our flies
eagerly. Everyone had a turn at a big fish,
and there was a good deal of excitement.
Hal exuded the greatest verbal enthusiasm. When he was “in the bucket,” everyone knew it. In our elation, we decided
to have a cookout and passed the word
to keep fish for dinner.
Paige Myers fished upstream some 50
yards from me, while Jim scanned the
area with a pair of binoculars. Suddenly,
we heard her shout, “Two! There are
two!” Had she spotted two rising fish?
She rushed toward us. “Where?” Jim
shouted. Paige pointed in the direction
of the hill above her. Bears. Two cubs
that Jim estimated to be about 400
pounds each were watching us. While
Jim looked for mama bear, I rushed to
the boat for my camera. Fortunately, I
had borrowed a telephoto lens. I had not
used it yet, so I tried hard to remember
all the instructions. The cubs remained
in sight for quite some time, silhouetted
against the flaming sinking sun. Jim
called to his sons to warn the others,
who were fishing the Narrows directly
below the bears. The boys rushed to
them, and young Jeff shouted, “Bears!
Bears!” The startled men simply moved
over to the other side of the Narrows and
went on with their fishing—they never
did see the bears.
The cubs themselves appeared charming and almost harmless. They frolicked
at the top of the hill about 200 to 300
yards away and disappeared over the hill
with the setting sun—one of the most
exciting sunsets I have ever experienced.
On Wednesday, the wind blew all day.
In the afternoon we went to the lake’s
sheltered side near our lodge. I had
fished just as hard as the men all week,
but in this wind, my line went nowhere.
I reluctantly gave up.
It was still windy on Thursday, but the
sun was out. We decided to tow a boat
along the shore to the grayling spot, the
only place untouched by the wind. Hal
was determined to land a trophy fish. We
fished intently, but a 31⁄4-pound fish was
the best recorded by my little scale.
On Friday, Hal took
Paige and me to his favorite
spot. He was eager to try
out the new fly he created
the night before: Paige’s
Pod. It was an imitation of
an isopod, the small freshwater crustacean we found
in all the graylings we kept.
We cast from the anchored
boat. Trying to avoid my
two companions, I cast
badly. Fishing from a boat
was constricting. I preferred wading. Still we
caught a lot of fish, all
graylings. The water was so
deliciously clear that I saw
fish take my fly a few yards
away. My largest catch for
the morning weighed 33⁄4
pounds.
In the afternoon I fished
the Narrows for a while,
absorbed in the majestic
beauty of the surroundings.
Suddenly the calm was shattered by Hal’s usual outburst, signaling yet another
big fish. This time he was
into a really big fish. He
hollered for us to bring a
boat around to help him
land it. We all watched the big one make
a series of runs; then it was lost. Soon
after this, I got a strike and felt a tremendous tug. I was puzzled. This was the
strongest pull I’d felt all week. I hoped it
wasn’t a red salmon. The fish surfaced
and leaped high into the air, flashing
gold and silver. It was a very large fish,
but not a salmon. It pulled away from
me with a powerful surge, taking out
much of my backing. “A monster! A
beauty!” I cried out. Paige, standing near
me, shouted encouragement. The fish
took off again with more power than I
thought possible. I stood there in utter
helplessness and watched it jump once
more, then there was a sudden, sickening
slack. The leader had broken. The fish
was gone. I didn’t even know what kind
it was. I felt numb and drained.
Mel was nowhere in sight and oblivious to my brief glory. I should give up, I
told myself—for that afternoon at least.
To be given another such experience by a
fish would be too much to ask for. Then
again, what I went through perhaps was
the mystery of fishing: I knew it would
happen again; I could even land one next
time. I was now hooked and shared the
feelings of all the fishermen in the world.
I lay down my rod and tried to recover
by taking photos of the sunset.
In the evening we sat around and for
the last time reminisced about fishing.
A grayling.
We were homebound the next day. I
sensed a feeling of certain sadness on
this evening before our departure. The
adventure was coming to an end. Our
mood, however, changed to that of joy
and expectation as we planned another
trip for the next year.
I witnessed much during this trip: the
fishing camaraderie, the techniques and
the imagination and creativity of good
fishermen, the thrill and the strike of the
big fish, and the beauty of unspoiled
wilderness. I don’t know if I will ever
become as seriously religious, artistic,
philosophical, or intellectual about fishing as so many of Mel’s friends, but I
know I had a great time and hope for
more. I will return next year and the
years after that.
"
Fanny Krieger is a founder of the
Golden West Women Fly Fishers and the
International Festival of Women Fly
Fishers. In 1994 she was inducted into the
Northern California Council/Federation
of Fly Fishers Hall of Fame for contributions to the world of fly fishing.
SPRING 2005
13
Islamorada with Charlie Causey
by Nathaniel P. Reed
C
HARLIE CAUSEY, MY FRIEND and but spends time on tarpon and permit. weight rod overloaded with an 11-weight
compatriot in the battle against He has restricted his guiding to about 150 line.
the rape of the Florida Keys, invit- days a year and only guides “longtime”
A P RIL 28
ed me for three days of bonefishing with anglers.
Eddie Wightman, the great bonefish
Off at 8:30 A.M. in Charlie’s super skiff.
Eddie has come to the conclusion that
guide. I had to miss the first day because the best backing for bonefish is 20- Eddie had schools of small tarpon locatof an endless meeting, but got on the pound monofilament. The stretch of the ed that would make a good start for any
road with great expectations and excite- mono keeps the fly secured in the bone- day. We stopped on the deepwater side of
ment the afternoon of 27 April 1998.
fish’s mouth. After years of using Dacron a bank. Eddie said excitedly, “They’re still
The long drive ended with a delightful and noting that many bonefish were able here!” The bottom was a mixture of dark
reception by Charlie and his wife Marby to lose the fly after a long run, Eddie grass and rock, which, with the slanting
at their truly wonderful property on the tried mono and is convinced that the sunlight, caused me serious problems in
seeing either an individual tarpon or any
bay side of Islamorada. Charlie and losses have been dramatically reduced.
cruising schools. The tarMarabeth (Marby) are the
pon were also a dark color
conscience of the upper
that made them very diffiKeys, where avarice and
cult to see. Eddie, however,
greed run rampant. Charlie
had no problem finding
serves on every possible
them, pointing out individboard dedicated to slowing
ual tarpon with his pole.
and controlling developI jumped a 15-pounder
ment, attempting to curand lost another after a savtail the terrible pollution
age strike. Charlie hooked
problems caused by the
a bigger tarpon, perhaps 30
Key’s 4,000 cesspool and
pounds, that threw the
8,000 leaking septic tanks.
hook after a busting jump.
“It is frustrating, even deFinishing with the tarpon,
pressing, but my love of
at 10:30, we crossed Florida
the Keys drives me on,”
Bay to an endless flat where
Charlie says. Marby is “all
Eddie was sure numerous
things”—wife, homemakbonefish would be found.
er, ally, and expert researchBefore lunch, I landed a 6er trained by years of work
pound bonefish, but then
in investment banking at
Author (right) with giant bonefish and Charlie Causey.
we suffered through a long,
one of Wall Street’s best
slow two hours without a
firms.
Charlie “found” the upper Keys while
Eddie believes the best shots at bone- sighting as the tide fell and began to flow
making his own waves on Wall Street fish are directly in front of the fish or in. Finally, around 3:00 P.M., Eddie spotthirty years ago. He became a passionate school. The fly is supposed to land 4 to 5 ted a nice bonefish, which I hooked and
bonefish fisherman. He fishes for the feet short and is tied with weighted eyes landed—a 7-pounder. An hour later,
gray ghosts 100 to 150 days a year. He to settle swiftly. The next key is the Charlie cast to what appeared to be a
poles his own skiff, wades soft flats occa- “Wightman strip”: a long, smooth strip. school of big bonefish. A fish took his fly
sionally in snowshoes, and frequently It will attract many if not the majority of after one bump that turned out to be a 9flies to the Bahamas for two to four days feeding or cruising bonefish. Once pound redfish, a species that had been
of “easy” fish, compared with the incred- attracted, you’re supposed to let the fly nearly fished out by the commercial fishibly bright fish of the Florida Keys that settle and then bump it with smooth, ermen, but are making a great comeback
are hunted and attacked daily by too small strips, rod tip near or in the water, throughout their range. At 4:30, Eddie
many guides and too many fishermen. then speed the fly up if a bonefish gives spotted another large bonefish that I
Now sixty-two years of age, he loves to chase, and hand strike. The key is to not hooked and landed—an 8-pounder.
Home at 5:30 P.M. A long day of polfish alone, loves to wade.
make any jerky movements; everything
ing, a wonderful experience.
Charlie and Eddie Wightman have must be smooth.
been fishing together for twenty years.
Eddie and Charlie like crab patterns
They know how to have fun together. that they tie themselves. The critical facA P RIL 29
Eddie came to the Keys as a boy of six. tor is the weight of the eyes: a light fly for
It was windy at 8:30 A.M.; 10 to 15 mph,
He’s been in love with fishing ever since. shallow water, a heavy fly for deep water.
Now fifty-seven, thin, lithe, 5-feet-8- “Get the fly down to the bonefish’s level growing to 15 to 20 mph by noon. A
inches tall, 165 pounds of muscle, he is a quickly” is their mantra. As for rods, they strange cloud cover cut visibility; high
magnificent poler and fishing guide. both believe that to cast effectively in the cirrus with fifty percent cumulous lowEddie has been guiding since he was six- common 15- to 25-knot winter and level clouds. We experienced frequent
teen years old and prefers bonefishing, spring winds, the best outfit is a 10- blackouts because of the scuttling clouds.
14
THE AMERICAN FLY FISHER
There were warnings of heavy afternoon
rains as El Niño’s weather pattern persisted.
Off at 8:30 A.M. I asked “permission”
to try for one of the giant, highly educated Islamorada local bonefish. Eddie
quipped, “They all have Ph.Ds.” There
are four or five flats right off the bay side
of Islamorada. Lignumvitae Key, which I
helped preserve way back in 1967, was in
the background. The bonefish on these
flats are among the largest anywhere in
the world. They are pummeled by hopeful anglers daily. Some of the largest fish
feed only at dawn, in the evening, and at
night. Eddie swore that they can feel, see,
and smell anglers. Even a perfect cast is
regularly rejected. Eddie likes the incoming tide with the wind behind it.
“Nat, this flat is ‘Failure Flat,’” said
Eddie, fastening his eyes on me. He
immediately spotted bonefish muddying
around the edges of the flat. I had four
good shots at three singles and a pair.
Eddie’s summary was that I had made
“one perfect cast, two good casts, and
one disastrous cast.” The four fish either
ignored the fly or fled.
Flat #2 had several large bonefish, but
they were still in the deepwater edge, and
we couldn’t really see them well. At the
far end of the flat, a pair of large bonefish began to mud. Eddie positioned me
perfectly. A good cast produced a take,
but I lost the line while trying to hand
strike—and the bonefish was gone.
Recriminations, disgust, and begging
forgiveness—what a bonehead! It was
the largest bonefish I’d ever cast to or
hooked and I blew it! Convinced that I
was done for the trip, I was feeling down,
defeated, and out.
The next flat was covered with “Ts”—
wooden cross bars that have been put on
the flat by researchers to measure the
nutrient load from birds on a frequently
tide-flushed flat. The fifty-odd crosses
make it look like a graveyard. Every one
of the perches had a bird sitting on it:
terns, gulls, and cormorants. As we poled
onto the flat, Eddie said that he could see
a number of bonefish feeding. While
lengthening line, I hooked a needlefish
that caused a long delay while Charlie
and Eddie repaired the leader. It took
longer than anyone expected because
several sections of the Ande leader needed to be replaced. The first fly, which
Charlie selected from his vast array of
crab flies, fell apart while being tied on
the leader, so he had to search again for
the “perfect” fly. Finally, just before 11:00
A.M., we were ready.
Eddie peered across the flat and said,
“Hey, the bonefish are still feeding!” I
blew the next three opportunities in a
row: all at major bonefish. I either cast
too long, too short, misplayed the
Wightman strip, couldn’t see the fish
until they were too close, you name it—
it happened. Finally, I cast at a large solo
bonefish off the starboard bow of the
skiff. The fish was feeding into the wind
tide, busy muddying. The fly fell 5 feet
upstream of him and sank. As the fly was
swept to the fish by the tide, I gave it one
smooth strip, and to everyone’s surprise,
the bonefish swam over and ate the fly.
The bonefish fled the flat through the
bird stakes. “Nat, take the drag off;
Charlie, start the engine!” Eddie was in
control. I cleared the line from the
stakes, Eddie poled the skiff off the flat,
and we began the chase. I had lost more
than 150 yards of line and was sure the
bonefish had swum around Channel
Marker #12, a tall concrete post that was
covered with barnacles. “Hold on, Nat,”
bellowed Eddie, and “Keep off the drag!”
I don’t know why the mono backing
wasn’t cut by the piling or the growth on
the piling, but we cleared it.
After reeling in a huge amount of
backing, which took me awhile, we were
confronted with the next hurdle: the
bonefish had doubled back, headed
“upstream” into the tide, and had turned
around a stone crab pot line. The line, of
course, was covered with a mass of
sharp, clinging shells and barnacles that
should have cut the mono backing—but
it didn’t. Charlie reached overboard and
lifted the backing up over the float.
Again, I spent a frantic minute’s time
reeling in a minimum of 150 yards of
backing and 35 yards of fly line.
The next obstacle was an anchored
boat with three anglers fishing for tarpon. The bonefish headed for their
anchor line. Eddie called out, “Would
you lift your anchor?” The three fishermen responded instantly, pulling up
their 20 yards of anchor line. What a
refreshing, reaffirming act. It is becoming rarer and rarer to encounter anglers
in a choice spot who would understand
and react so quickly.
The bonefish turned and went back
upstream, into the tide, and then doubled back around Channel Marker #11.
Eddie chased him, drove the skiff
upstream, and again the backing slid off
the channel marker without being cut. I
handled one more exciting long run that
took the bonefish onto a small flat west
of the channel marker. There I was finally able to get the backing onto the reel
and successfully finish the fight with the
fly line on the reel.
After a full fifteen minutes of holding
the bonefish, trying to turn him over,
trying to get him to come to the surface,
without results, I wondered out loud if
the hook had slipped and that the bone-
fish was foul hooked. Finally, forty-eight
minutes after being hooked, Eddie
reached down and handtailed the bonefish. “Good heavens, Charlie, look at this
bonefish!” They were in my way and I
could only hear Charlie say, “My God,
he’s a genuine monster!”
The bonefish was stocky—35 inches
long; bulging—20 inches thick around
the shoulders; and heavy, all the way to
its tail. I think it had to be a female filled
with roe. Eddie admitted, “It’s bigger
than my personal record of 15.6 pounds.”
Charlie added, “It’s bigger than my 15.12pounder.” We quickly photographed and
released the monster. It was firmly
hooked in the corner of its mouth. The
bonefish was so strong that I could not
lift it with a 10-weight rod bent double!
Think of pulling an 11-weight line
around for forty-eight minutes. Rarely
have I fought a more determined fish.
During lunch, the “battle scene” was
revisited, and each obstacle described
vividly. Finally, Eddie said, “You know, it
was meant to be. The needlefish, the new
leader, the long pause, a change of flies,
the obstacles—all of that—it was meant
to be.”
I’d always wanted to catch a really
large bonefish. Charlie and Eddie are
convinced the fish must have weighed
between 16 and 18 pounds, a potential
world record (except for assistance in
clearing the crab pot float), but a “life
fish.” As I have no interest in killing a
bonefish, the potential world record is
meaningless.
On the long drive home, through torrential rain, I had plenty of time to relive
the fight and realize that this was the
largest bonefish that I had ever seen, the
largest bonefish that I will ever hook or
land. It was meant to be!
There’s a 40-pound permit out there,
somewhere!
"
Nathaniel Reed is a keen fisherman
who loves snook, bonefish, tarpon,
Atlantic salmon, and permit adventures.
Reed has served as founder of the Florida
Department of Environmental Protection
and 1000 Friends of Florida; assistant secretary of Fish and Wildlife and Parks in
the U.S. Department of the Interior; vice
chairman of the National Audubon
Society, the Nature Conservancy, and the
Everglades Foundation; and a member of
the board of the Atlantic Salmon Federation. His mother once commented,
“Nathaniel was born with a fly rod in his
hand!”
SPRING 2005
15
My Search for the Perfect
Fishing Hat
by Robert H. Berls
If you scratch an event, you get an idea.
!Annie Dillard, Living by Fiction
G
OOD FISHING HATS are hard to
find. Many anglers do not give the
matter a thought, and their heads
reveal their mindlessness. Baseball caps,
powder blue porkpies, and dubious cowboy hats predominate; all fail in their
several ways. Little is written about fishing hats, and I cannot recall
any thorough coverage of
“covers,” as we used to say in
the Army: as in “uncover
when entering a building
except when bearing sidearms.”
The Army gives a lot of
thought, even research, to
hats, costing God knows
how many millions. All the
more surprising when the
best they could do for their
new helmet is one that
resembles the World War II
Wehrmacht field soldier’s
“pot.” I even have one of the
latter in a closet (a souvenir), complete with the original owner’s initials, and
brown stains that may be
blood, on the leather head
band. (Don’t get any ideas
about how old I am—an
uncle gave it to me.) It’s in a
closet lest a visitor wonder
about my politics or whether I also have a black leather
jacket and a Harley in the
garage. But I digress.
Charles Ritz was fussy
about his angling headcover, but then he was fussy
about everything in a useful
sort of way. Reputedly he had his fishing
hats made to order in a little shop on the
Place Vendôme. In scrutinizing the photographs in his angling autobiography, I
like the panache of his hats, but not their
practicality. And now we get to the subject of this article: most fishing hats have
This piece first appeared in the Spring 1987 issue
of the Anglers’ Club Bulletin.
16
THE AMERICAN FLY FISHER
neither flair nor practicality, and some
have one but not both. I have concentrated much thought and effort, and
more than a few bucks, in a relentless
search for a fishing hat that combines the
practical features I think fishing hats
need with some grace of line that lifts
Fussy angler Charles Ritz.
them beyond the pedestrian. No baseball
caps, porkpies, or urban cowboy Resistols for me.
Let’s examine what should go into a
satisfactory fishing hat: it must protect
the head, face, and neck from the sun,
and shed showers if not hard rain. (I
avoid using the hood of my rain jacket,
but when it pours, the hood goes up.)
Lightness is important. I know that there
is a school of hat-wearers indigenous to
southwestern Montana river who think
that heavy suede-leather cowboy hats are
desirable since their weight requires
more wind to drive them off your head.
But let them stand knee deep in a weed
bed on the Letort, say, on a 90-degree day
when you can see the
AMFF file photo
humidity, and they will
yearn for a lightweight hat.
Besides, you can always put a
thong on your hat and tuck
it under your chin when the
mistral blows. Gary Borger
does this, and I’m with him.
The hat must be dark colored; of this I am convinced.
I have seen too many red or
yellow baseball caps flashing
like a lighthouse from a
quarter-mile up- or downstream when I cannot even
discern the angler’s figure.
Many of these caps have
bright white fronts, usually
ornamented with the name
of somebody’s tackle shop,
bar, or bowling team. I
remember an angler standing in deep shade on a
Montana spring creek, nearly invisible but for the white
front of his cap signaling
“here I am” to the trout who
were probably rolling in the
aisles between the weed
beds. The pale tan or gray
often found on caps or cowboy hats is scarcely better. I
have a color slide of myself,
taken on that same spring
creek, wearing dark waders and dark vest
and a tan hat: that hat socks you right in
the eye—brilliant with reflected Montana sunlight.
Charles Brooks went as far as to wear
camouflage netting over his face, along
with his dark hat, to prevent reflected
light. If I had encountered him on the
Firehole in such a getup, I would have
fled, convinced that Sheriff Johnny
France got the wrong mountain man up
there in the Spanish Peaks. Examination
of photos of Brooks wearing his properly dark hat, however, reveals a narrow
brim. I believe that a broad brim—3
inches minimum—would have shaded
his face enough so that he would not
have had to resemble a survivalist fruitcake on the lam.
Lefty Kreh has seen the light. I note
his observation about fishing on the
English chalk streams with that astute
British angler John Goddard. Goddard,
in the photos I have seen, always sports a
dark green cap and shirt. Lefty says that
his khaki vest repeatedly spooked trout
despite careful approaches. Lefty came
home and dyed one of his vests green,
but is silent about hats.
One of the rare pieces of angling writing to notice hats is Art Lee’s pleasant
article about the Canadian salmon guide
Richard Nelson Adams. Adams wears an
admirable, broad-brimmed, dashing
Borsalino on the river. Such a hat
approaches my Platonic ideal head-cover
with the one flaw that it is light colored.
But then salmon may not be as wary as
trout.
For several years I wore a hat known
infelicitously as an “up-downer” or a
“Florida fishing hat.” You know the kind:
a long-billed cap with a flap attached to
the back so that you can turn it down to
keep the sun off your neck. At first these
were only available in tan, but progress
marched on, and you can get them in
dark green, navy blue, or camouflage.
Further progress through chemistry
brought them out in Gore-tex: good for
showers. Such hats suffer, to me, three
shortcomings: the back brim is not
broad enough, and it is cut up on the
side, allowing part of the neck and side
of the face to burn and to reflect light.
Not least, they have as much panache as
an old shoe: Charles Ritz would not have
been caught dead in one.
By now, if you are still here, you will
have perceived the requirements of what
I believe to be essential in an angling hat:
dark colored with a broad brim, light
weight, and some flair to it. The brim
should be turned down front and back:
not only for dash, but also to allow rain
to drip off rather than puddle on the
brim and pour into your fly box when
you bend your head to see what fly the
trout will next refuse. Fur felt is preferable to wool felt. Wool felt is much
cheaper, but it is heavier, coarser, and
gets smelly when wet.
Gary Borger, who gives careful
thought to everything connected to his
trout fishing, wears a similar hat,
although it is a bit pale and narrow in the
brim to meet fully my desiderata. But
having fished with him, I can attest that
Gary can catch almost any trout, anywhere, anytime. I am an ordinary mortal
and need all the help I can get.
Setting out the requirements of my
hat is easier than finding one, and when
you do find one, I advise you, it is not
cheap. I recently located and bought a
hat that comes close to my vision of
goodness in hats. You could buy a decent
graphite rod for not much more. Such a
hat is made in Africa and is often seen, in
photos at least, on the heads of so-called
white hunters or on British managers of
East African game refuges: fur felt, broad
brimmed, dark, properly bent down
front and back, and no flashy hatband.
Hat people call them slouch hats: a soft
felt hat having a broad brim that hangs
over the face. I displayed to my wife this
latest acquisition in the search for the
ultimate fishing hat (I pretended that I
didn’t hear her ask how much it cost),
but she, not being the romantic perfectionist that I am, punctured my nonchalance by observing that my slight stature
made it appear “that there’s a hat with a
man under it.” But you can’t have everything.
Further deflation occurred when I
realized belatedly that my hat is similar
to (beware cheap imitations) one made
famous by “Indiana Jones” in a recent
movie, making me feel uncomfortably
part of a fad rather than having attained
a pleasing distinctiveness.
Other hats have been considered but
were rejected after various mental experiments or field trials. The Tyrolean style
hat’s narrow brim was sufficient reason
for nonpurchase. Eddie Bauer sells a canvas hat called the “plantation” model.
This hat is about as brimmy as you can
get, but the canvas makes it heavy, and it
is so pale that I wince to look at it. I have
considered a dye job. Orvis and Lands’
End sell another generously brimmed
canvas hat complete with brass grommets for vents. This hat also would
require messing up the sink.
I had a discovery this spring that sent
an urge of near purchase through me: a
feathery light, airy, parched-grass color
straw hat in the slouch style with an
almost broad enough brim. Just might
do for the sweltering trout streams of
summer, I thought, but I forced myself to
admit that its paleness would make the
spooky browns of the Letort dematerialize before my eyes. I thought of a dye job,
but abandoned the notion when I considered what the hot dye bath would do
to that frail straw.
Straw cowboy hats are all the rage on
trout streams now, and not only in the
West. An angling companion, otherwise
a soberly dressed attorney-at-law, arrives
in Montana every year wearing cowboy
boots, jeans, “western” shirt, denim jacket, and a huge, pale, straw Resistol. He
wears that luminous hat on the spring
creeks where the trout can spot him
almost as far off as I can. I am certain
that this explains why I usually catch
more trout than he does. But at least he
does not bend up the sides of the brim
vertically: a common practice of cowboy
hat–wearing anglers that mindlessly
negates the advantage of wearing a
broad-brimmed hat.
Another angler friend occasionally
appears in a hat I covet: an authentic
Australian army field campaign hat—
broad brimmed, dark, showerproof, with
chin strap and snaps so that the brim can
be buttoned up on the rifle aiming
side—a feature not needed by the peaceable angler, but dashing. I can see Trevor
Howard in one now. This hat swaggers.
The real thing does not appear to be
available outside Australia, but ersatz
imitations are around.
The pith helmet has been adopted by
an angling friend who thinks it helps to
circulate air around his head. I suggested
that he go all the way and buy the kind
Orvis used to sell and you can get still at
Hammacher Schlemmer: the one with
the solar-cell driven fan that blows air
around one’s head. He thought that was
a good idea but was reluctant to walk
into a bar in Montana wearing a hat with
a propeller on it.
The “shock of recognition,” as the literary critics say, hit me when I saw my
hat in an article on Herbert Johnson, the
venerable London hat firm (and where
the “Indiana Jones” job actually came
from) in a recent magazine article. I discovered that this hat, which Herbert
Johnson call their “Grosvenor” model,
has a long lineage and was preferred by
Humphrey Bogart. Being devoted to the
history and literature of fly fishing, I am
pleased that my hat has an appropriate
British origin. No doubt Herbert
Johnson, or their competitor at Lock &
Company, have on display the perfect
fishing hat of my daydreams. On my
next visit to London, I shall test my
dream, but I concede grudgingly that all
searches for perfection are doomed.
You can, of course, wear any damn hat
you want.
"
Robert H. Berls is editor of the Bulletin
of the Anglers’ Club of New York and
American correspondent for the Journal of
the Flyfishers’ Club of London. He lives
in Washington, D.C.
Illustration from the 1886 A.G. Spalding & Bros.
General Sporting Goods Catalogue No. 22.
SPRING 2005
17
A Pair of Browns
(Myotis lucifugus and Salmo trutta)
by Robert J. Demarest
Robert J. Demarest
The little brown bat that appeared dead when first sighted.
I
T STARTED OUT TO BE an eagerlylooked-forward-to day of trout fishing on the Brodhead and Paradise
Rivers in Pennsylvania. Bat surgery was
never contemplated. And bat fishing was
something that I had once read about,
but it certainly is not something I ever
considered pursuing.1
I would be fishing on private water
with a good friend, Dickson—unquestionably, the best trout fisherman I have
ever known.
We parked, rigged up, and headed for
the riverbank. Our hope was that we
would see some rises. Dry-fly fishing is
our favorite method, but it was late
August, and the hatches were few. As we
scanned the river, we were suddenly
brought up short.
We saw what we thought was a dead
bat, caught on a branch of a tree overhanging the river. It was hanging from
the end of a tippet, with the other end
caught in the branches. We first thought
that the bat had mistaken a cast fly for a
live insect and, catching it in midair, was
hooked and then frantically flew into the
tree. More likely, an angler broke off
18
THE AMERICAN FLY FISHER
Standing in the river, we used the reel
end of a rod for a hook and brought the
branch down to reachable distance. We
then broke it off with the bat still
attached. It was a little brown bat, the
most common bat in the United States.
Now what? Fully cognizant of the possibility of being bitten, we planned our
approach. I ran back to the car, where a
versatile pliers, equipped with a wire cutter, resides for emergencies. With
Dickson carefully holding the creature, I
performed the surgery. We both made
sure we avoided its fierce, toothed
mouth, although I think it was too weak
to be aggressive. The bat was hooked
solidly, but we could see the barb clearly.
By pulling on the tippet, I had a clear line
to the fly. With the wire cutter now easily guided to the hook, I clipped it, freeing
the bat.
Unable to fly, it crawled into the bushes to recover. Our surgery done, we repaired to the stream.
On the first cast, Dickson hooked a
nice brown. He turned to me, still
pumped up from saving the bat, and
said, “It looks like there is a God.”
while trying to retrieve an errant cast,
!
leaving his fly dangling in the evening
breeze. Either way, the bat
Dickson Despommier
found it. How long it had
hung there, we couldn’t know.
As we looked on, the bat
made a slight move. Dead it
was not, though life’s spark
was barely flickering.
Dickson and I were as one:
“Let’s save the bat.” I think it
was confidence in our dexterity, hubris, and compassion,
all mixed up in the moment,
but we didn’t hesitate. On reflection, it was probably a
foolish move. Bats can transmit rabies, and although few
people have been bitten by a
rabid bat, it can happen. They
also carry fleas, mites, and
chiggers. Although I don’t exactly love bats, I have, as have
many anglers, enjoyed seeing
them swoop over streams
and ponds on their early
The author with the 24-inch brown trout
evening forays, while fishing
that ended his memorable day.
just beneath their wings.
By late afternoon, we had moved over
to the Paradise River. It, like the
Brodhead, runs into the Delaware, and
lately some nice rainbows and browns
have been caught there. The Paradise has
an interesting feature: the Tunnel. It’s
part of a huge, double-arched bridge,
with the river flowing under one arch
and the road under the other. A railroad
track runs along the top. Because of its
length and size, many people are
uncomfortable fishing through it. I happen to love its cool darkness.
The river bottom below the Tunnel is
graded, rocky, and relatively flat. Wading, even in the darkest interior, is without surprises. Fish like to hunker down
against its walls for protection, and a cast
close to a side wall is usually the most
effective. Because of the low light, an
Ausable Wulff with a dropper seemed
our best approach. The Wulff would be a
visible indicator, and the dropper would
be cruising about 21⁄2 feet below, just
above the rocks. My dropper fly was a
small Copper John tied to a 5x tippet.
On my second cast, the Ausable
dipped. I set the hook and knew immediately that I had a sizable fish. It came
right at me and backed me out into sunshine. As the clear water of the Paradise
revealed the fish’s full size, anxiety
immediately set in. Worried about the
small hook tearing out and the tippet
abrading on the rocks, I gradually
worked the fish to shore. Keeping its
head up, I guided it as it beached itself
on the small rocks. It measured 24 inches on my ruler-marked rod, making it
the largest brown of my fishing life.
Two quick pictures later, the fish was
returned to the river. It will live in my
memory book, and I hope it will fill
someone else’s in the weeks or months
ahead. The bat? When we checked, it was
nowhere to be found.
It isn’t every day that one can release
two memorable browns.
"
ENDNOTE
1. Randy Wayne White, Bat Fishing in the
Rainforest (New York: Lyons & Burford, 1991).
Robert Demarest is the author of
Traveling with Winslow Homer: America’s Premier Artist/Angler. In it he follows Homer throughout the western hemisphere, fishing and painting where Homer
fished and painted a century ago.
The Fishing Was the
Best of It
(With Apologies to
Dana Lamb)
by Gardner L. Grant
I
N AN EARLIER ISSUE of the Bulletin,
Nat Reed and I wrote of our steelhead fishing experience in British
Columbia. Time has sufficiently healed
the wounds to allow me to recount
another part of that experience, heretofore repressed.
Our trip to the B.C. backcountry
started in the town of Smithers.
However, it was at Arapahoe Airport in
Denver that our ordeal began. There the
happy company of anglers boarded Mr.
T’s plane for the flight to Vancouver and
Smithers. The perfect host, Mr. T (no
reference to the movie and TV actor of
that name) served brunch and Bloody
Marys soon after takeoff. Nat, Mike
Owen, and I were relaxing with aprés
brunch brandy when Mr. T announced,
“Time for bridge! I’ll play with Mike!”
Mike is a Life Master; Nat and I barely
recalled Culbertson. Well, it was his
plane, and how could a rubber of bridge
hurt?
“We’ll play Chicago for a penny a
point!”
To me, Chicago was a city on the
shore of Lake Michigan, and a penny a
point sounded reasonable. We were
about to learn a new lexicon.
“You’re down three, doubled, and vulnerable!”
Vulnerable took on a totally new
meaning, and the last time I had been
doubled was a long time ago when I
wandered too far off second base on a
ball hit to the outfield.
We deplaned at Smithers and boarded
a float-equipped aircraft for the flight
into the backcountry. That night, a few
moments after the light from the
Coleman flooded our camp, the cards
and the scorecard reappeared and the
carnage continued. The steelhead were
holding downriver, and we decided to
backpack to a tent camp some miles
below the lake. Surely, after all this exertion, bridge would be mercifully forgotten. Right? Wrong! The light from the
Coleman flooded the tent. Out came the
scorepad, the cards, and the words, “Last
hand, everybody vulnerable, your deal!”
Mirabile dictu, even a worm can turn
(even on a fly-fishing trip). As the week
drew to a close, fortune smiled, the aces
came out of the woodwork, and our
skills became sharper, honed in the crucible of adversity.
Approaching Denver on the return
flight, the Reed-Grant team had drawn
virtually even. The pilot came over the
speaker, “Fasten your seat belts. We’ll
land at Arapahoe in five minutes.” Mr. T
dealt the last hand, the bid was seven notrump against us. Happily, I threw my
cards on the table, saying “Too bad, we’ll
never have a chance to find out if you
can make it!”
With that, Mr. T cast a baleful eye at
me and shouted one word into the intercom: “Circle!”
We did—and aided by my error, the
contract was made.
We settled up, said our goodbyes, and
headed home to various parts of the
country.
What lesson can be drawn? Adding
this to a prior experience, I can only
offer this advice: never make a business
deal on another guy’s boat, or you may
never dock; never play bridge on another guy’s plane, or you may never land!
"
Gardner Grant is a Museum trustee, a
lifelong compulsive fly fisher, and an
enthusiastic, if bumbling, bridge player.
This piece first appeared in the Fall 1984 issue of
the Anglers’ Club Bulletin.
SPRING 2005
19
Gore Creek:
A Love Story
by John Betts
Photos taken by the author
Top: Looking upstream at the Gore Range, the source of the creek,
from the upper end of the golf course during runoff.
Center: A short but very good stretch under the Lion’s Head lift.
Bottom: A look at the creek’s less-accessible upper half.
A
FEW YEARS AGO my wife Betsy and
I bought a small condominium at
the upper end of the valley in East
Vail, Colorado. The elevation is more
than 8,500 feet. The sides of the valley
are heavily wooded with aspen, blue
spruce, and lodgepole pine. Their slopes
drain down into Gore Creek. The creek,
which holds brook, brown, rainbow, and
cutthroat trout, passes within 10 yards of
our place. The creek was one of the reasons for settling in this area.
Betsy is very pretty and stands 5 feet,
13⁄4 inches tall. So far, science has been
unable to find the three-quarters. She
weighs 105 pounds. Wearing her light
blue, purple, or raspberry ski suit and
outfitted with skis, boots, and poles, she
might get to 117 or 118. How someone
that size can make as much noise as she
20
THE AMERICAN FLY FISHER
does climbing our outside stairs is more
than I will ever understand. The sound is
completely different from numbers of
larger people going back and forth
everyday. She is an expert skier with a
clean classic style developed over
decades. Apparently some of that
rubbed off when she taught her kids
how to ski on Tower Hill in Fair Haven.
Her youngest ended up on the World
Cup Freestyle Team. Skiing was her reason for choosing Vail. A third reason for
both of us was the surroundings themselves; in many cases, they are without
parallel.
Because we both work on weekends,
we take our time off in the middle of the
week. We’d drive up from Denver every
Tuesday afternoon and go back late
Thursday morning. During the winter,
she usually skis on Wednesday and I fish.
She changes over to her mountain bike
in the summer, and I don’t do much
more than change fly patterns.
For one hundred centuries, Gore
Creek has run down through the center
of the Vail Valley, which until the 1960s
held only a few ranches. Today there are
only about a hundred building lots left
in an area 10 or so miles long and about
a half a mile wide. The resident population fluctuates, but generally runs
around 4,500. On holidays and weekends, it increases by many thousands.
This crowd is made up of day visitors,
visiting residents like ourselves, and
vacationers from all over the United
States and the rest of the world. To hear
a dozen languages spoken in a restaurant
during a single meal is not unusual.
The developed areas on both sides of
the valley—particularly a huge expanse
of ski runs and trails on the south side—
make up one of the most famous resorts
in the world. Since the beginning, all of
the construction has been done under
increasingly strict control to prevent
damage to both the land and water and
to encourage the development of their
recreation potential.
The trout population in the creek is
never superabundant, but at certain
times offers anything one could wish for.
This was true more than forty years ago
when I first fished it. The difference now
is that considerable stream improvement
and development has added measurably
to the amount of fishable water and
access to it.
Gore Creek is a freestone stream that
begins in the snowfields lining the 13,000to 14,000-foot peaks at the top of the valley. From there, it drops more than 6,000
feet to its confluence with the Eagle River.
The total distance is
between 15 and 20
miles. The upper half
is accessible only on
foot. This part of the
stream, above East
Vail, is fast, narrow,
full of big rocks, and
guarded by very heavy
brush along its banks.
The bottom 10 miles
from East Vail to the
Eagle is all easy to
reach by foot, bicycle,
free valley shuttle, or a
combination of all
three. You can ride
your bike downstream,
which is downhill, fish,
put your bike on a
shuttle that has a bike
rack, and ride the bus
back home, which is
uphill.
The spring snowmelt is restricted to a
narrow course coming down a steep
grade. Confined like this, the water can
rise 2, 3, and even 4 feet, particularly
where the beavers have been busy, and
stay that way for more than a month,
even in a low snow year. Heavy snow
years will increase the depth of the water
and the time it needs to run off. At this
time of year, the water is very cold and
unsafe to wade. Unless there is a bank
failure or unseasonably warm weather,
the water remains clear all morning, but
may color in the afternoon as the temperature goes up. The speed of the
water—in places 8 to 10 feet per second—
combined with sources refrozen during
the night, will clear any cloudiness by the
following morning. After runoff, its nat-
ural clarity is due to the mature established forest cover on the upper 10 miles.
The root mat beneath these trees is a very
effective filter.
In the lower 10 miles, the creek runs
through the golf course, residential
areas, and the town of Vail. Here sound
design and maintenance have created a
filter of similar effectiveness.
One might think that the speed of the
water during runoff in a small stream
like this would render it unsuitable for
resident trout and the insects they need
for survival. Indeed, the scour is considerable and goes on for an extended period of time. While the hatches of caddis,
stoneflies, midges, and mayflies are on
the thin side, they are, when coupled
with high water quality, enough to retain
a healthy trout population.
If there has been a normal snow pack
and following spring thaw, the runoff
usually lasts from the end of April until
early July.
The kayak course in the village.
During the periods of the highest
water, the creek is a popular run for local
kayakers. They use it after work, or all
day if that looks like a better idea than
going to work at all. They ride the 10mile length down from East Vail and out
into the “definitely gnarly” class 4 and 5
waters of the Eagle.
Usually by mid-July, the water has
begun to drop steadily to a level it will
remain close to until the end of the following winter. Many of the fish in the
upper reaches will drop downstream.
Some will leave entirely, but more than
enough will stay over. It is doubtful that
many of the larger fish are lifelong residents of the creek. Even if born here,
they may descend to the Eagle and grow
to good size in the more fertile and larg-
er river. When and if they return, it may
be to find cooler water in the summer or
a place to spawn. A number of these fish
remain scattered throughout the creek
all year.
M OST I NT E N SE LY M ANAGED
The creek itself is not large, seldom
being more than 25 feet across. The water
must be read carefully, and disturbances
caused by sloppy casting and clumsy
wading should be kept to a minimum.
The character of the banks bordering the
bright water changes constantly. It can be
close, charming, remote, or urban, all
within the distance of a few score yards.
From the carefully designed alpine architecture around the covered bridge in the
middle of Vail, one can, within a few
minutes, walk to places that in the middle
of the week or during the off season seem
quite removed from any trace of human
activity. At times the
only sense of anything
but the stream is all
that I’m aware of.
The intense nature
and quality of the
development on both
sides of the creek attest to the value placed
on preserving as much
of the natural environment as possible. At
the time of its inception as a resort, there
were few regulations to
protect the natural surroundings.
There is no doubt
that the original planners were not only
aware of the site they
had, but of its longterm value if it was
preserved. They apparently felt that this value could be realized only if they restrained themselves
and did not give way to unbridled expansion. If $6 million for a choice half-acre
lot in the village is considered a benchmark price, then the value of the land
held back for public use represents a
potential short-term loss of hundreds of
millions of dollars to the investors. The
temptation must have been hard for
some to resist. In the long term, however, their farsighted planning more than
paid them back. A nice dividend to their
effort is in the knowledge that their
actions were both deliberated and voluntary at a time when there was little to
encourage their being so. When the village center was planned, it was to be an
area with little or no vehicular traffic.
SPRING 2005
21
This still holds, with morning deliveries,
a few residents, and municipal work
being the exceptions. Apparently Vail has
more acres of parks and open space per
capita than any other community of its
size or larger in the nation. No wonder
it’s as pretty as it is.
running through its entire length makes ment on both sides of the lower half of
the creek is manufactured and managed.
it unique.
A new kayak course has been made in The wild evidence swimming around in
the center of town by placing large boul- it is proof that the processes have been
ders in the creek. Spring scour caused the very sound in both conception and exeplanned deeper water around them. cution. This water, just like any other,
Kayakers will use the runs for a short will take care of itself when it’s given the
period of time chance.
Good trout streams are commonly
when the water
is unfishable. found running through towns in
After that, there Europe. Gore Creek is one of very few in
will be some this country. It is not a particularly
new pools deep unusual stream except for what has been
enough to hold done with it in relation to its location.
trout for twelve The task was begun and continued for
months. This is years by people who had little or no forthe most recent mal training in the field of development
example of the as it relates to environmental managededication by ment. The talents they brought to the job
the town gov- were common sense, prudence, and a
ernment and genuine love of where they were pursuthe people who ing their interest.
Parking is an expensive headache in
support them
to preserving all resorts. During ski season, Vail’s two
and emphasiz- municipal garages are $15 a day and “free
ing the image after 3 P.M.” To get people to and from the
Mountain wildflowers on the Shrine Pass (elevation 10,000
and use of the hill without having them use their cars,
feet plus) above East Vail.
there are a number of free shuttle buses.
resort.
Some years ago the ski interests built
Their use is encouraged by their convean impoundment above East Vail. It was
nience and the costly parking facilities.
F OR P UBLIC U SE
put into place to supply water to the
Three of the shuttle lines run alongside
What has been done for public use is the creek. In the winter, they keep a fifsnow-making operation that would have
otherwise drained the creek dry. The cared for with sensitivity and a high level teen-minute schedule from early until
main entrance to the village and moun- of craftsmanship. There is an excellent late. One goes from the central terminal
tain is through the covered bridge cross- bike and walking path that parallels the upstream to East Vail and back, making a
ing Gore Creek. It cannot have been lost lower 10 miles of the creek. Alongside it number of stops. The round trip is about
on anyone that seeing water in the creek are the famous Betty Ford Alpine 10 miles. Another runs back and forth
beneath the bridge was preferable to a Gardens, a huge natural area with a 200- through town with a lot of stops every
jumble of dry boulders, regardless of the foot beaver dam and occupied lodge that quarter hour all year long. A third goes
season. They could only have hoped that are more than seventy years old, and a from the terminal downstream to West
there would be a dozen or more fine wild nature center that conducts daily and Vail. Its schedule and distance are similar
trout in view year-round. These fish plus weekly flower and bird walks and fly- to the East Vail line. All three are conseeing people fly fishing for them near fishing trips. What must be one of the nected at the terminal. Although nearly
the bridge was a chamber of commerce’s most photogenic mountain golf courses all of the land beside the creek is privatedream advertisement. All that it required anywhere is also bordered by both the ly held, the stream itself is open, and
to make it a reality was to keep clean path and the creek. All of the ponds on there are numerous access points along
the course hold wild trout, as does the the bus routes.
water in the creek.
The approved residential and com- beaver dam. Anglers are
mercial architecture in the central and asked not to fish in the
outlying areas is almost invariably bor- ponds or in the creek,
dered by hundreds of public and private where it crosses the
gardens and planters. In summer, these course, during the
are augmented by scores of hanging bas- months that the course
kets from which every flower color imag- is open (May through
inable overflows; all of it is meticulously October).
Trout streams are
tended by legions of phantom gardeners.
In some spots, flowers and feeders attract sensitive to changes in
their surroundings and
dozens of hummingbirds at a time.
The nature and quality of the devel- reflect the quality of
opment around it attest to the value those conditions fairly
placed on the stream and its protection quickly. A stream that is
for all who would enjoy it, whether it’s healthy over a long perilooking at it, having a picnic alongside it, od of time provides a
swimming your dog, kayaking, or fishing good indication of the
Entrance through the covered bridge
in it. The Vail Valley is probably one of health of the environto the village and ski area.
the most intensely managed areas of its ment that contains it.
kind in the country. Having Gore Creek Most of the environ22
THE AMERICAN FLY FISHER
W I NTE R F IS HING
At about 10:00 in the morning during
the winter, I carry Betsy’s skis to the
shuttle stop about 75 yards from our
door. We ride down to the terminal and
walk through the covered bridge to the
lift. Once she’s on her way, I buy a paper
and stop at the tiny, partially underground
Covered Bridge Coffee Shop. The Rocky
Mountain News and coffee
take about half an hour. I
leave the paper for anyone
who might be interested and
start back through the
bridge to the bus. I always
stop for a minute to look
over the railing at the trout
moving in the water below
me.
The pool below the bridge
begins in some fairly fast
water. Finning the currents
are usually eight to a dozen
rainbows between a half a
pound and 3 pounds. Below
them the stream fans out
into a flat about 50 yards
long and 20 to 25 feet wide.
Except during snowmelt, the
water here is crystal clear,
shallow, slow moving, and
perfectly smooth. There are
not only rainbows in this
section, but brook, brown,
and cutthroat. The brook
and cutthroat go up to 12
inches, the rainbows average
8 to 16 inches, and the browns
10 inches to 3 pounds. An odd
rainbow will be more than
20 inches.
Sometimes one or two of
the upstream fish can be
taken with weighted nymphs and shortline techniques before the rest are put
down. My choice here, though, is two #22
wet flies about 24 inches apart on a 6foot, 7X tippet of normal leader material.
The extra-strength monofilaments are
too stiff, too expensive, and don’t hold
knots well. A tiny split shot is pinched on
about 18 inches above the top fly. The
entire arrangement is fished upstream
with a fairly open casting loop. The
length of the cast can be anywhere
between 20 and 40 feet, depending on
conditions. The water is read and covered just as one would do with an
upstream dry fly. Fishing small wet flies
upstream dead drift is one of the two
most difficult forms of fly fishing I know.
When used at the head of the pool under
the bridge, four or five fish can be moved
instead of the one or two raised using the
more common approach. This is usually
done in front of a gallery on the bridge
who don’t mind watching someone else
work.
If I was a better wet-fly fisherman, I’d
probably do better, but I find that fishing
only the water at the heads of pools is
confining. My real interests lie in the
vague movement of the water in the larger area downstream.
In this case, great care must be taken,
as any sudden movement will put the
waders, get my stuff, and take the next
shuttle back to town. Once there, I have
a number of options. I can stay there and
fish, and catch the shuttle back when I’m
done; move upstream and catch the
same bus at another stop; or take the
town or West Vail lines downstream and
fish back up. In the summer, parking at
the garages is free, so Betsy, if she comes,
unloads her bike, and I take whatever
bus I need to get me to
where I want to go. In winter
or summer, the bike path
makes walking up- or downstream easy. Because I haven’t
used the car, except to get to
the terminal, I never have to
walk back to it. Betsy takes
the car home, and I’ll take
the bus. Late summer and
early fall fishing are best
from the last half of August
through November, again,
with very small flies such as
Blue-Winged Olives in sizes
22, 24, and 26.
In the early spring before
skiing ends, there is a hatch
of small stoneflies (two
species) and a decent-sized
black midge (about a #20).
Even though the water
comes up a bit, it remains
clear, unless the weather is
unusually warm. As with all
hatches, these progress upstream. Each week I get off
the bus where I stopped fishing the week before. Again a
pair of small wet flies or a
nymph and appropriate dry
fly on 4- to 7-foot tippets are
Looking downstream from the covered bridge.
effective. The entire hatch
will last about a month.
entire flat down for some time. Three- Increased runoff generally brings it to a
weight lines and longish, soft, accurate stop. On a daily basis, it’s usually over by
downstream casts and drifts presenting 3:00 or 3:30 P.M. Catch and release is
size #22, 24, and 26 dry flies seems to be encouraged on Gore Creek, and this
the most productive. Only rarely will allows the angler to symbolically “make a
upstream offerings be accepted. Atten- good basket.”
tion should be paid to fish that can be
When I get back to the covered bridge,
seen feeding even if their movement is I have to look over the railing at least one
only occasional. Fishing tiny dry flies on more time. For me, looking at trout any6- to 7-foot 7X tippets in bright winter where is fascinating. Looking at them
sunlight to wary, solitary fish in shallow over bridge railings is irresistible. I suswater that rise only now and then is the pect the same is true for many others.
other hardest kind of fly fishing. After Late in the day during the winter the air
watching the fish for a while, I get on the in the mountains is usually very still. The
shuttle and go back to East Vail.
smooth surface of the pool will reflect all
If the weather is terrible—blowing, of the changing colors of the last light.
below 20 degrees, or snowing really For a long time, there may be just one
hard—I’ll stay home and write, watch rise. It will appear on the surface for only
birds, paint or draw, or tie flies; usually a moment. I stay to see that happen
it’s all four. It’s on those days that I can before I go.
hear Betsy coming up the stairs. If the
If I’m not too late, I’ll wait at the
weather is any milder than the preced- bridge until the lifts close and meet
ing, I’ll have an early lunch, put on my Betsy. I will have gotten a large hot
SPRING 2005
23
chocolate with whipped cream and a
huge brownie. We’ll sit on the solid
bench beside the bridge entrance and
talk about a day during which we did
completely different things that we each
love in one of the most beautiful settings
in the world. We’ll tell each other how
glad we are that we could meet up, then
I’ll pick up her skis, she’ll carry my fly
rod, and we’ll walk to the bus to go
home together—and that’s our favorite
and best part of the whole day.
—December 2000
We recently sold our place. We have
always thought of our time there as one
of the most special treats we have given
each other in the thirty years we’ve been
together. In the creek this past April, I
released more than fifteen fish heavier
than 2 pounds and lost at least that
many. The space between them was
filled with many smaller trout of all four
species. Most were taken on small dry
flies, lines, and reels that I had made, and
Jenkins’s split-cane rods. One was a 71⁄2foot 3-weight, the other an 8-foot 4weight that Betsy gave me for my sixtieth
birthday.
Our last day there I didn’t fish, but
took Betsy to the lift, and then went to
the coffee shop. The day was clear and
very cold. At the top of the mountain,
the view of the central Rockies was perfect. Water vapor had frozen into tiny ice
crystals that floated about in the air,
periodically bringing ethereal sparkle to
everything in sight. This is a fairly rare
occurrence, and for Betsy on her last day
skiing, very moving.
I waited for her later after the hill
closed. We had some hot chocolate—
they were out of brownies—and then
walked through the covered bridge.
Stopping a moment to look over the
railing, I could see a rainbow trout of
about 20 inches in clear shallow water
directly below me. It was the last fish I
saw in Gore Creek.
We are blessed to have had this experience as part of our lives when there are
so many is this country and elsewhere
who cannot have it in theirs.
—December 2001
"
John Betts has at one time or another
made every part of his fly-fishing outfit
himself: hooks, line, reels, rods, and flies.
He is a writer and artist who has been featured at the American Crafts Museum in
New York. He lives in Denver.
24
THE AMERICAN FLY FISHER
NOTES AND COMMENT
W
hen I was ten or eleven years
old, our family spent summers
on Mallets Bay, Lake Champlain. Dad was working in New York
City, so one day by myself I rigged up my
late grandfather’s 9-foot fly rod with its
reel, line, and leader and tied on (somehow) a buggy-looking critter, launched
myself in a rowboat, and headed across
the cove to what I thought was a likely
spot to hook a bass.
I found that by swinging the rod back
over my shoulder, I could get out some
line; then by swinging the rod in front of
me, I could drag the bug off the surface
in back and get out some more line up
front.
While I was performing this operation over and over again, my cousins
Rick and Francis Hewitt came rowing
toward my spot. When they got close
enough, one of them hollered: “When
you going to start fishing?”
(I guess that was the beginning, but I
didn’t know it at the time.)
—DICK FINLAY
Dick Finlay is a Museum trustee emeritus. He became a serious fly fisherman
after joining Orvis in 1947. He helped Bill
Cairns establish the first fly-fishing school
and was one of the original Museum
trustees.
I started fishing with my mother seventy years ago at the age of six, and we
were fly fishing together in Quebec, New
Brunswick, and Ontario sixty-four years
ago, from 1939 through the 1950s. In my
experience, there is more good fly-fishing water available today than there was
in the 1940s, ’50s, ’60s, and ’70s. Tailwater
fisheries are extremely productive—a
fairly recent phenomenon—and available to everyone. Catch-and-release and
slot limits have all helped to maintain
trout fisheries. In the salt water, declaring the redfish a game fish has greatly
increased their numbers, and regulations
on striped bass have brought them back
in abundance.
People have said to me, how about
Atlantic salmon? Well, we certainly don’t
have the answer yet on that species, but I
had an interesting experience of today
versus yesteryear.
I was invited, along with son Perk, to
fish Two Brooks Lodge on the Up-
salquich in New Brunswick. I mentioned
to my hosts that I had fished Two Brooks
water some fifty years earlier with my
mother. I don’t think they really believed
me. But there were our names in the logbook. I believe it was in 1952 and 1953,
very close to the same week we were
there in 2000. Well, we caught a lot more
salmon and grilse in 2000 than we did in
’52 or ’53, and in a lot less water—the
province had taken over some of the
camp’s best water for the public. Some of
the great fishing of the good old days is
due to selective memories.
Another great plus for today versus
yesteryear is the fly-fishing equipment.
Up until 1950, we had to deal with gut
leaders and silk lines, both of which
failed most of the time. Our 3X gut was
as fine as it got and had the strength of
wet toilet paper. There was no such thing
as fine fly fishing with 5X or 6X tippets
and size 16 and smaller flies.
Saltwater fly fishing was almost
impossible before nylon leaders and
modern fly lines, never mind the
tremendous advantage of graphite over
bamboo.
Five days ago, I caught a 25-inch
brown trout in a small spring creek on a
size 16 Pale Morning Dun and 5X tippet
with a 1-weight graphite rod. This morning I caught a 211⁄2-inch brown on the
same outfit with a 6X tippet on a different spring creek. Both creeks had no
trout in them at all twelve years ago.
They were referred to as sloughs in cow
pastures and had been that way for seventy-some years. Both creeks had the
cows removed and stream improvement
done. Neither creek has ever been
stocked.
I’ll bet my grandchildren will have
even better fly fishing than I have
enjoyed. These are the good old days!
—LEIGH PERKINS
Leigh H. Perkins is a trustee of the
Museum and one of its founders. He purchased the Orvis Company in 1965 and
served as its chief executive officer until
1992. He has served on many philanthropic boards of directors, including such conservation and wildlife organizations as
Trout Unlimited, the Ruffed Grouse
Society, the Nature Conservancy, the
National Fish and Wildlife Foundation,
and the International Game Fish Association.
The Soque Sisters vs.
the Foggy Bottom Boys
by Stephen Sloan
T
Photographs provided by Stephen Sloan
chipped in with Snowfly by
HE SOQUE (accent on
Joe Heywood and Modern
the que) River runs
through the foothills
Streamers for Trophy Trout
of the Blue Ridge Mounby Bob Linsenman. “I’ll
tains, one hundred miles
send you a copy of them
north-northeast of Atlanta,
together with my book, Fly
in Batesville, Georgia,
Fishing Is Spoken Here.”
twelve miles from Clarks“No,” said Henry, “haven’t
ville, a thriving rural farmread them but would like to.
ing area of some five hunMr. Steeeve, you best be condred souls and two streets,
centrating on your nymph.
three restaurants, an anYou missed three fiiish on
tiques shop (nice stuff), and
that last drift.”
a city hall. Johnny Mize, the
“Henry, have you read all
great slugger for the New
those books?” I asked snagYork Giants and later the
ging a bush on my backcast.
New York Yankees, was born
“Twiiiice,” he said, “some
thrice.”
in Demorest, Georgia, about
And so the literary joureight miles away. I first
The Foggy Bottom Boys, the Soque Sisters, and guides.
learned of the river from an
ney, two souls in simpatico
article by Tom Boyd in North East Fly farmhouse that Friday, I was greeted by with angling literature, continued for the
Fishing Magazine (October 2002), titled Abby and John Jackson, who own the next two days. Catching all those trout
“Why Go to New Zealand?” The article Blackhawk Farm and 31⁄2 miles of the was incidental to the discussions we had
described, with pictures, the fishing Soque River. The family name regis- about each book: the pros, the cons, the
prowess of the Soque River running tered—I had just crossed the Jackson theories, the styles, each punctuated by a
through the Blackhawk Farm. I called Bridge and was in Jackson County. They large trout being brought to Henry’s net.
Tom, and after two minutes of conversa- introduced me to my guide, Henry, a It occurred to me that Henry had read a
tion, he said, “Steve, get your butt down tall, lean, wiry man in his late forties great deal of the library inventory of the
there!” I did. I checked a website, looked whose greeting was as follows: “Misster Anglers’ Club and the International
bug-eyed at the pictures, made a plane Steeeeve (elongating all the vowels), Game Fish Association. I was hard put to
reservation, booked the local B&B in weeeere goooing fissshing today.” God, I keep pace.
Clarksville, and followed his general thought, as scenes from the movie
advice: “Leave your 3- and 4-weight rods Deliverance flashed in my head; we all
S O QUE S E QUE L
home and bring 6- and 7-weight sticks. going to be drunk by three in the afternoon. Surely Henry has access to a local
The fish are big and powerful.”
As I left the Blackhawk Farm and the
I arrived on Friday afternoon, fished still, and I thought I detected a bulge in Soque River that Sunday in November
for four hours, fished Saturday for five his back pocket where a bottle of white 2002, I vowed to return. I did, in May
hours (it was raining), and on Sunday lightning was stored. Never have I been 2003 with Rollie Schmitten and my son
morning for four hours. Ready? I more wrong on first impressions. I fol- Bob. Rollie was head of the National
hooked and released forty-two trout, lowed Henry down to the first run on Marine Fisheries Service (NMFS), Unitwenty-eight of which were more than the lower section. “Let me see you cast, ted States Atlantic Salmon Commis20 inches in length. My guide, Henry Mr. Steeeeve,” he drawled. I let loose sioner, the United States Whaling ComWilliamson, weighed one brown trout with a double haul, managed a tight missioner, and is now director of NMFS’s
streamside with a boga-grip that went loop, and ended with a Joe Humphries Habitat section and a passionate fly fishjust over 27 inches in length and weighed tuck cast as I let the hare’s ear nymph fall erman.
more than 11 pounds. But the fishing was first on the water. “Mister Steeeeve,
We arrived, and Henry could only
wadda you think of Schweibert’s give us one day’s guiding, so Abby arnot the best part of the trip.
When I pulled up to the Blackhawk Matching the Hatch? Joe Brooks’s Trout? ranged for Candy Norton to guide us on
Harry Middleton’s Along the Spine of the second day. Candy is an administraTime? Lefty Kreh’s casting books? James tor for human resources for the Forsyth
This article originally appeared in the
Prosek’s book on Walton? and Joe County school system near Atlanta and
Spring/Summer 2004 (vol. 79, no. 3) issue of the
Anglers’ Club Bulletin.
Humphreys’s Trout Tactics?” Plus a fishes the Soque River with great regudozen more titles he rattled off. I larity. Saturday night, at dinner, she pro-
SPRING 2005
25
posed that we all have a match with four
fly-fishing ladies from Atlanta who were
members of her club. Rollie and I accepted the challenge immediately. We set a
date for the fall (18–19 October 2003).
Again, Bob, Rollie, and I had fantastic
fishing in May.
Between May and August, I invited
Paul “Terry” Shultz and Jim Klein, both
members of the Anglers’ Club of New
York, to become part of the challenged
foursome. Terry and Jim have fished all
over the world and are accomplished flyfishing anglers. Candy added friends
Missy Schmidt, Gayle Rizzio, and Abby
Jackson to her team. All had vast experience fishing the Soque
and the Blackhawk waters.
I searched for a name for
this match, and it struck
me as I watched the film O
Brother, Where Art Thou?,
loosely based on The Odyssey by Homer. “The Soque Sisters vs. the Foggy
Bottom Boys” sounded
just right. Terry, Rollie,
and I all did work for the
government, and Jim, as
an accountant for Deloitte, surely had filed a
federal tax return. The
match was duly named.
T HE
C OMPETI TI O N
The rules were simple: barbless hooks;
no foul-hooked fish counted; all fish to
be measured by a ruler supplied by me;
and the river was to be divided into two
parts—upper and lower. After an hour’s
lunch each day, we switched positions on
the river. We designed the times to allow
each team equal soak time for their flies.
The team with the most inches after we
closed the fishing on Sunday afternoon
won.
Henry Williamson was the gillie for
the Foggy Bottom Boys; Sam Rizzio
(Gayle Rizzio’s husband) and Brooks
Runkle were gillies for the Soque Sisters.
The gillies could net, measure the fish,
keep score, and take pictures, but not
touch the tackle.
At the first streamside lunch whipped
up by John Jackson, Abby’s husband, the
Foggy Bottom Boys were ecstatic as we
took the lead by 200 inches. We were off
to a great start. To prove a smile is a
frown upside down, we learned late in
the afternoon, sitting around the outdoor fireplace, sipping some beers and
counting the afternoon results, that we
were in deep trouble. Candy Norton
posted her score of 901 inches in an
26
THE AMERICAN FLY FISHER
incredible afternoon of trout fishing. She
released thirty-nine trout. The other
Soque Sisters did well too, and the Foggy
Bottom Boys were seriously behind by
788 inches.
There was much whooping and hollering that night during dinner as we
devoured some succulent pork chops
with potato salad and other great trimmings. I suggested that each member of
each team get up and tell what flies were
used during the day—a not-too-subtle
way of finding out what the hell Candy
was using. Her report was an eye opener.
She took thirty of the thirty-nine trout
on a black caddis, #18 dry fly, a 5X leader,
“Great,” Sam said. “These boys fell for
it again. The lower section always fishes
better in the afternoon.” Curses—foiled
again.
The second day’s brunch break found
the Foggy Bottom Boys had staged a
mild rally, now being only behind by 100
inches or roughly five fish. I tried
Candy’s black caddis method, and to my
amazement, it worked, and I released
nine fish, all longer than 22 inches.
In the afternoon we seemed to be running in molasses. The Foggy Bottom
Boys never could get a good streak going
in any one of the pools on the upper section. A fish here and there, but nothing
hot. We got back to the
Blackhawk farmhouse, added up the scores, and lost
by 586 inches. The Soque
Sisters won fair and blackcaddis square. The incredible fact was that eight
doggone good trout fisherpersons managed to hook
and release 5,260 inches or
433.33 feet of trout in two
days of fishing in a competitive format. The fish
averaged more than 21
inches. On reflection,
many good trout fisherpersons have never caught
a 21-inch trout in their
lifetimes and still enjoy
the sport. Terry Schultz
caught the largest fish, a
Stephen Sloan with a big Soque River trout.
28-inch rainbow that
and a tiny split shot 15 to 18 inches above weighed well more than 10 pounds.
the fly. She sunk a dry fly. She cast
As we packed our tackle and loaded
upstream and fished the dry black caddis our cars for the trip back to Atlanta, we
just like a nymph. The Foggy Bottom all realized that the trout had won. They
Boys were in a state of shock. Just then were all returned to the river. As Lee
gillie Sam Rizzio asked me how long I Wulff often said, “A fish is too valuable
had been trout fishing
to be caught only once.” We were sure
“Sixty-plus years,” I said, and Rollie? trout of the Soque would answer our
“About fifty,” was Rollie’s reply. Terry? parting cheer, “Same time next year.”
“About fifty-two,” Terry answered, and
"
Jim Klein chipped in with forty-five.
You’ve got to watch out for those
Stephen Sloan is chairman of the
Georgia Hawgs, I sensed. Sam contin- Fisheries Defense Fund, Inc., and author
ued, “How about you Candy?”
of Fly Fishing Is Spoken Here (2003),
“Three,” she answered, as did Missy. Ocean Bankruptcy: World Fisheries on
Abby and Gayle stated they had “two the Brink of Disaster (2003), and Thanyears experience apiece.”
atopfish: An Ocean Odyssey (2004). He
“Well now, that looks like about two founded “The Fishing Zone” and “EcoZone,”
hundred to ten in the experience the longest-running syndicated fishing
columns,” drawled Sam. I made a move- radio shows in the country, concerned with
ment that pulled the knife out of my fishery, ecological, and conservation issues.
heart. This was an evil portent for the
next day’s fishing. Before we departed,
Sam, in a magnanimous gesture, asked
me what section of the stream we wanted to fish in the morning session. I
thought that since Candy had done so
well that afternoon, we ought to hit her
hot spot, so I said the lower part.
LETTERS
In the recent article by Frederick
Buller (“A Hoard of Mysterious Salmon
Flies,” Fall 2004, vol. 30, no. 4), there are
photographs of several unusual flies. As I
said in the sidebar to that piece, I didn’t
think that these flies would be used in
normal fly casting since their size and
weight, either dry or especially wet,
would make their use with a fly rod
extremely difficult.
There is, on page 101 of J. H. Keene’s
book, Fishing Tackle: Its Materials and
Manufacture (London: Ward, Lock and
Co., 1886), a picture of one of these flies
attached to a spinner; at the top of this
page is a title “For Pike, Salmon, etc.”
Chris Sandford, in his book, The Best
of British Baits (Esher, Surrey, England:
Chris Sandford, 1997, p. 41), says that the
lure was made by W. D. Chapman of
Theresa, New York. Whether or not this
included the fly, I don’t know.
Keene worked in both the United
States and Great Britain. There could
have been flies like this and those of Mr.
Buller made in England and imported or
made by someone, including Keene, in
this country. Keene mentions the use of
cotton batting to build up the body.
JOHN BETTS
DENVER, COLORADO
I read in awe the wonderfully erudite
banter with which Robert J. DeMott
responded to Robert H. Boyle’s essay on
fishing references in “Finnegans Wake”
in your Fall 2004 issue, and his discussion of Ezra Pound and fly fishing.
Stimulating stuff.
However, I did raise an eyebrow at the
suggestion that the 1829 issue of Charles
Bowlker’s The Art of Angling could be
regarded as the fourth or fifth edition. It
is a complicated book bibliographically,
and the 1829 is probably its thirteenth
appearance since it was first published in
ca. 1747 (an approximate date that is preferred these days to the 1758 cited by
some sources). I see no real possibility of
compressing the many issues so as to
arrive at a chronology of the book that
would deliver DeMott’s conclusion.
For the record, I think it safer to refer
to it as the “1829 edition” and leave it at
that.
DAVID BEAZLEY
LIBRARIAN, THE FLYFISHERS’ CLUB,
LONDON
E-mail: [email protected]
Lori Pinkowski
John Cueman (left), Lisa Cueman, and Moira Gehring got into
the holiday spirit as the Museum hosted the Manchester Chamber
of Commerce’s annual holiday mixer.
Chamber Mixer
The Museum was host to the local
Chamber of Commerce’s annual holiday
mixer on December 7. We were concerned that the event would be canceled
because of freezing rain and snow, but in
spite of it all, more than 150 guests
braved the elements to indulge on outrageous hors d’oeuvres (provided by
Pangaea) and spirits.
Guests stood in awe of the lofty postand-beam gallery with its classic Adirondack-style canoe suspended from
the ceiling, then stepped closer to admire
the Anglers All exhibit currently on display.
Lively conversations could be heard
throughout the Museum as guests made
themselves comfortable next to the
warmth of the fireplace. Others perused
the Museum’s gift shop, where one can
find an array of eclectic gifts, from hats
and T-shirts to fly boxes and tackle to
leather-bound journals and original artwork.
This was the second area event hosted
by the Museum as part of our goal to
build strong community ties. It was a
wonderful holiday party.
—LORI PINKOWSKI
DIRECTOR OF EVENTS
Staffing News
The Museum is pleased to announce
the appointment of Rebecca Nawrath to
the position of office manager and
membership director. She joined the
staff in January.
Becky moved to Vermont with her
family of nine (six siblings!) right after
high school. She attended the University
of Vermont, where she graduated with a
degree in U.S. history, with minors in art
and English.
Her professional credits are many and
varied, but she was most recently the
office manager for the Manchester and
the Mountains Regional Chamber of
Commerce, a position she held for six
years. Becky, who has lived in ManSPRING 2005
27
Jim Hardman
—LORI PINKOWSKI
chester for more than thirty
DIRECTOR OF EVENTS
years, is very active locally, having
served for fifteen years on the
Marketing Efforts
local District Environmental
Commission, as well as the state
We will be implementing a
Environmental Board, the body
marketing plan for the Museum
that oversees the state of Verthis year, beginning with our
mont’s environmental law Act
Grand Opening on June 11. This
250. She is a member of the Manevent will serve as a springboard
chester Lions Club.
for our goal of further educating
Becky brings to the position
the public about who we are,
great organizational skills and a
what we do, and what we hope to
love for managing people and an
accomplish in years to come.
office. “It’s great to be able to put
Our new website is currently
my love of art and history to use
under construction and will be
in such a beautiful setting,” she
“live” in May; however, our cursays.
Lori Pinkowski (left) enjoys a chat with one of the many rent site is still accessible. We are
Becky is married to native
developing a new brochure, as
folks who stopped by the Museum’s booth in Somerset.
Vermonter and local attorney
well as a packet for our trustees to
Michael Nawrath. They have two grown complimentary booth space in Marl- attract new members and supporters to
borough. As a nonprofit agency, it would the Museum. We are also working on a
children, Ben and Molly.
Please join us in welcoming Becky to be difficult for us to attend shows and press kit to foster relationships with the
build awareness of our mission without media and to create additional awareour staff.
their support.
ness of the Museum. These pieces are
—LORI PINKOWSKI scheduled to be completed throughout
Trade Shows
DIRECTOR OF EVENTS the year.
We will also continue to nurture comThe whirlwind that has been my first
munity
relationships through educationthree months at the Museum has includ- New York Anglers’ Club
al programs, hosting meetings/events,
ed trade shows in Marlborough, Mass- Dinner
and supporting other local organizations
achusetts, and Somerset, New Jersey.
through advertisements in playbills, proIt was another great event at the grams, and the like.
Interim Director Yoshi Akiyama, Trustee
Jim Hardman, and I attended both Anglers’ Club on February 3. Mary
—LORI PINKOWSKI
shows in January and had a great time. O’Malley and her staff once again created
DIRECTOR OF EVENTS
Jim was kind enough to walk me around a spectacular dinner with outrageous
the show floor and introduce me to the cheesecake for dessert! We had a record
legends of the fly-fishing industry: peo- number of raffle ticket sales thanks to Recent Donations
ple like Stan Bogdan, Per Brandin, and committee member Pam Murray. The
Joe Garman. I also met several incredible live auction had many day trips to local
Robert H. Miller of Tucson, Arizona,
fly tyers: Paul Rossman, Roger Plourde, waters and were well received by our donated a Horrocks-Ibbotson doubleDavid Brandt, and Bill Newcomb. In eighty-plus guests. A couple of longtime tapered silk fly line new in the original
addition, I had the pleasure of meeting guests were unable to attend and were box; an Olson’s fly fisher’s tool; two
bamboo rodmaker Fred Kretchman and greatly missed: our host and dinner Pott’s Hair Flies (Ketchum, Idaho, circa
professional guides Rachel Finn, Barry chair Ian Mackay and dinner committee 1950), a Hodgman Wader Repair Kit
Beck, and Cathy Beck. For someone like member Jim Baker. Our thanks to our (circa 1950); a framed original watercolme who is relatively new to the fly-fish- auction donors: Jim Collins, Equinox or by Don Pents, Miramichi River, N.B.;
ing world, meeting these people was an Resort and Spa, Nick Karas, Carmine and a copy of Gray’s Sporting Journal
honor. What I’ve found in this industry Lisella, John Mundt Jr., Quivera Winery, (April 1990) featuring sketches by Don
is that everyone—and I truly mean Kristoph Rollenhagen, Ritz-Carlton Pents.
everyone—is very friendly, lighthearted, New Orleans, Paul
Jim Hardman
and more than willing to share their sto- Rossman, Ian Mackay,
Drs. Mark and Gary
ries and knowledge.
The shows were very good for the Sherman, and Richard
Museum. We sold a record number of Tisch and the Potatuck
memberships, as well as hats, T-shirts, Club. We also thank our
pins, and other items. Many people event sponsors: Thomas
David
made a $2 donation for a chance to win Keesee III,
Kristoph
Tom Landreth’s Morning Mist print. A Nichols,
lot of people inquired if we were open Rollenhagen, Mike and
yet; all were excited to hear that we are Debby Osborne, Alexis
and promised to visit soon. Members Surovov, Jeffrey Williams,
stopped by to say hi, catch up on and Michael Nickitas.
Museum news, and see the new Power- And, of course, a special
Point presentation we assembled just for thanks goes out to our
host Mary O’Malley and
the shows.
Joe Garman (left), Per Brandin, Fred Kretchman, and
We would like to thank the Fly her staff at the Anglers’
Stan Bogdan enjoy a lighter moment at Marlborough.
Fishing Show for providing us with Club.
28
THE AMERICAN FLY FISHER
Yoshi Akiyama
DONOR
BRIC KS
An opportunity
to make a difference and
become part of the new
home of the American
Museum of Fly Fishing.
Trustees Carl Kuehner (left) and Steve Peet take at look at what will
be up for bid at the Anglers’ Club dinner.
George W. Angstadt of Philadelphia
donated the following books: The Year of
the Trout by Steve Raymond (Simon &
Schuster Inc., 1988, first Fireside edition); Great Fishing Tackle Catalogs of the
Golden Age, edited by Samuel Melner
and Herman Kessler (Crown Publishers,
Inc., 1972); In the Ring of the Rise by
Vincent C. Marinaro (Crown Publishers,
Inc., 1976, fourth printing); American Fly
Fishing: A History by Paul Schullery
(Nick Lyons Books, 1987); Master FlyTying Guide, edited by Art Flick (Crown
Publishers, Inc., 1975); Complete Book of
Fly Fishing by Joe Brooks (Outdoor Life,
1965, third printing); The Joy of Trout by
Arnold Gingrich (Crown Publishers,
Inc., 1973); The Practical Fly Fisherman
by A. J. McClane (Prentice-Hall, Inc.,
1975); The Compleat Brown Trout by
Cecil E. Heacox (Winchester Press, 1974);
Selective Trout by Doug Swisher and Carl
Richards (Crown Publishers, Inc., 1971);
This Wonderful World of Trout by Charles
K. Fox (Telegraph Press, 1963); Rising
Trout by Charles K. Fox (Telegraph
Press, 1967); Tying & Fishing Terrestrials
by Gerald Almy (Stackpole Books, 1978);
and Trout Fishing by Joe Brooks
(Outdoor Life, 1972).
Melissa Ziriakus of Evanston, Illinois,
donated a first edition of The Found Fish
by John McPhee (Farrar, Straus and
Giroux, 2002).
Paul Schullery of Yellowstone Park,
Wyoming, sent us an article from The Big
Sky, “Author died doing what he loved,”
on the death of Datus Proper (29 July
2003) and an article from Vermont magazine, “Vermont’s Philosophical Angler,”
about Harold Blaisdell (July/August
2003).
Dr. and Mrs. Thomas M. McMillan of
Medford, New Jersey, donated “Sheila’s
rod,” a 9-foot, three-piece bamboo fly
rod by the A. A. W. Co. (Newark, New
Jersey) with a “Peerless” reel; spinning
rod (#53727 impregnated bamboo); an 8foot, 6-inch, three-piece bamboo fly rod
by Cross Rod & Co. (Lynn, Massachusetts) and the Forsyth reel, no. 586;
an 8-foot Orvis Wes Jordan impregnated
bamboo fly rod; and an Orvis CFO IV
fly reel with extra spool.
Chris Steer of South Yorkshire,
England, donated a set of seven Allcock
flies in a box: Royal Coachman #4, Silver
Doctor #4, Professor #4, Par Belle #4, Par
Belle #1/0, Brown Huckle #14, and Dark
Montreal #4.
James Baker of Madison, New Jersey,
sent us an Abbey & Imbrie 9-foot, 10inch, three-piece lancewood fly rod and
a 9-foot, 4-inch, three-piece Calcutta
cane casting rod (maker unknown).
In the Library
Thanks to the following publishers
for their donations of recent titles that
have become part of our collection (all
titles were published in 2005, unless otherwise noted):
Stackpole Books sent us Bob Wyatt’s
Trout Hunting: The Pursuit of Happiness;
Dave Hughes’s Handbook of Hatches:
Introductory Guide to the Foods Trout Eat
and the Most Effective Flies to Match
Them; Ed Engle’s Fishing Small Flies; and
Hal Elliott Wert’s Hoover: The Fishing
President.
Frank Amato Publications, Inc. sent
us Ray Gould’s Cane Rods: Tips & Tapers.
And the Lyons Press sent us Nick Karas’s
Brook Trout: A Thorough Look at North
America’s Great Native Trout—Its
History, Biology, and Angling Possibilities
Bricks are $100 each.
Bricks may be purchased
singly or in a series that
can be placed together
to create a larger message.
Purchasers are free to put
anything they like on their
bricks (no profanity).
Each brick is 4" x 8" and
has room for three lines of
text of up to 20 characters
per line. That does include
spaces and punctuation—
for example, putting “fly
fishing rules!” on a brick
would be 18 characters.
Call (802) 362-3300
SPRING 2005
29
Ad to come
PINE MEADOW HOUSE BED AND BREAKFAST
Enjoy the charm of Litchfield country in our home
built in 1836. Our goal is to
offer you a unique experience
in comfort and service. Decorated with museum-quality
antique art, mounted birds,
and vintage fishing gear, our
home is an inviting place to
be far removed from the the
busy day. After a restful night’s
sleep in your room with cable
TV and private bath, wake
each morning to freshly baked
muffins, croissants, and seasonal fruits. Located two minutes from trophy fly fishing
on the Farmington River, we
offer guided trips by Paul
Rossman.
398 Main Street • Pine Meadow, CT 06061 • (860) 379-8745
www.pinemeadowhousebb.com • [email protected]
30
THE AMERICAN FLY FISHER
Live Water Properties
full-page ad
SPRING 2005
31
You’re Invited
to our
Grand Opening Festival!
Saturday June 11, 2005
10 a.m. to 4 p.m.
Come join us as we celebrate the
opening of the Museum’s beautiful
new home in Manchester, Vermont.
Festival events and activities throughout
the day include:
•Fly-fishing craftsmen
•Rodmakers
•Fly tyers
•Art exhibits &
demonstrations
•Local artisans
•Interactive activities
for the family
•Fun, food, &
entertainment
And a raffle surprise!
We will end the celebration with a
gourmet barbeque hoedown complete
with country music and dancing!
A ribbon-cutting ceremony will take place at noon on the front lawn of the Museum.
For more information, please contact the AMFF:
PO Box 42 • Manchester, Vermont 05254 • (802) 362-3300 • [email protected]
32
THE AMERICAN FLY FISHER
The State of the Museum
AMFF file Photo
T
HE RECENTLY REOPENED American Museum of Fly
Fishing—with a new building that is certainly an upgrade from the one we had on Seminary Avenue—is
being welcomed as a significant partner in the Manchester
community. We are right next to the Orvis flagship store on
Main Street, and there is a direct path across their parking lot
to our front door.
Receptions for town officials and a housewarming sponsored by the Chamber of Commerce have been well received.
Visitors have been highly complimentary, both of the appearance of our new building and of the quality of our displays.
These compliments are appreciated and reflect the hard work
by our staff, board members, contractors, and volunteers. Our
library and gift shop add to the impression that we “did things
right.”
Yes, we are looking for a new executive director, someone to
take responsibility for our operations and work with the board
in our public outreach. As curator and collections manager, I
have assumed additional responsibilities during this period of
executive search, wearing more than one hat and serving as
interim director.
As we complete the move of our library and tie up the loose
ends of reorganization and unpacking, we face another challenge: the periodic review from the American Association of
Museums. We currently enjoy full accreditation, an important
certification of our policies, records, and performance. As one
visiting official put it, “Accreditation is difficult to earn and
even more difficult to keep.”
Our doors are open to you, and we welcome your visit. On
June 11, we are hosting a grand opening that will officially open
the door to the new life and history of the Museum. This is
your Museum, your new building, and your organization. We
hope you will join us.
We truly thank you for your past support and solicit your
continued participation!
YOSHI AKIYAMA
INTERIM DIRECTOR
SPRING 2005
THE AMERICAN MUSEUM OF FLY FISHING,
a nationally accredited, nonprofit, educational institution dedicated to preserving the rich
heritage of fly fishing, was founded in
Manchester, Vermont, in 1968. The Museum
serves as a repository for, and conservator to,
the world’s largest collection of angling and
angling-related objects. The Museum’s collections and exhibits provide the public with
thorough documentation of the evolution of
fly fishing as a sport, art form, craft, and industry in the United States and abroad from
the sixteenth century to the present. Rods,
reels, and flies, as well as tackle, art, books,
manuscripts, and photographs form the major components of the Museum’s collections.
The Museum has gained recognition as a
unique educational institution. It supports a
publications program through which its national quarterly journal, The American Fly
Fisher, and books, art prints, and catalogs are
regularly offered to the public. The Museum’s
traveling exhibits program has made it possible for educational exhibits to be viewed
across the United States and abroad. The
Museum also provides in-house exhibits,
related interpretive programming, and
research services for members, visiting scholars, authors, and students.
The Museum is an active, member-oriented nonprofit institution. For information
please contact: The American Museum of Fly
Fishing, P. O. Box 42, Manchester, Vermont
05254, 802-362-3300.