Feast or Famine

15 04 2009

It has been a busy week of fishing here in Bent Rod World where every fish leaves completely satisfied with the encounter.  The Caddis hatch is on in E. Tennessee and things are getting silly.  This isn’t just any Caddis hatch but the big daddy Black Caddis hatch on the Watauga River. This is the time of year that epic days are made and the past few have not disappointed.  

Sunday

Ryan and I met up with both boats, wives, friends, and my dog, Traveler, in tow.  The expectations were high as the day was bluebird and the bugs were out in full force.  We saw huge numbers of Black Caddis in a size 12, early Sulfurs in a size 14, BWO’s, and midges.  The trout on the other hand must have been wrecked from a late night kegger because the first 6 hours were slow…real slow.  

The dog and I learning a lesson in futility.

The dog and I learning a lesson in futility.

Angela, Ryan’s wife, once again proved that she is the Shera (don’t act like you don’t know who Shera is,  He-Man’s rockin’ hot mistress of the cartoon world…hello?) of piscatorial pursuits.   I saw another emasculation developing and was none too happy about it.  

Angela, surveying her vast fishy kingdom which she rules with an iron fist.

Angela, surveying her vast fishy kingdom which she rules with an iron fist.

We rolled into the “ledges” section feeling as if somebody had run over the dog. I am not a man that easily gives up however (my academic, social, and business life being the exceptions). I gritted my teeth, cursed the gods, re-rigged the rod with a soft hackle pheasant tail and let out a barbaric yop, “Not again, no not again Lord. I am a man, I am a man!” Well I guess the big guy was smiling down on this godless heathen on a beautiful Easter Sunday because the trout started eating in my favorite manner…recklessly.  

 

My wife Lindsey giving Leroy, the brown trout, a good old fashioned bum rubbing.

My wife Lindsey giving Leroy, the brown trout, a good old fashioned bum rubbing.

We all proceeded to catch them hand over fist till there were big shit eating grins all around (except for my friend Greg who must have missed 30 strikes and long distance handshaked at least that many fish in half an hour…stupid bastard. The last six hours were forgotten as if they happened a million years ago.  

Yours truly with colored up bow who was stupid enough to fall victim to a guy like me.

Yours truly with colored up bow who was stupid enough to fall victim to a guy like me.

It always amazes me how a turn in the action can erase the majority of the day’s frustrations and bring me down from the proverbial ledge.  Everyone left that day tired but fulfilled…that is till  Tuesday.

 

 

 

Tuesday

With the Caddis hitting, we decided it was just too good to stay away. Murphy made the trek down from the wilderness that is West Virginia and it was on again. We put in around 11:00am with one thing in mind… an epic day.  Once again we were not disappointed. The first hole coughed up 5 or 6 fish in fifteen minutes.  At this point we realized all we could do was put on our big boy pants and hold on.

Ryan striking a pose with Leroy.  Artistic ain't it?

Ryan striking a pose with Leroy. Artistic ain't it?

 It seemed like every trout in the river was looking up and more than willing to fling themselves at our dry flies in kamikaze fashion.  At some point one of us commented that we must have boated 50 fish between us. That was only 3/4 of the way through the float, and the last quarter of the float might have been the most fruitful (I have been trying to work the word fruitful into my everyday vocabulary as I believe it has nice ring to it. Say it with me…Fruitful…see).  The scariest part about this whole day was that it was in the 50s and rainy — I can’t even imagine what it would have been like if the sun had come out for more than fifteen minutes. Mind blowing to say the least.  

 

Murphy and Ryan are back on the river today (lucky bastards), as I am around the house finishing up finals, catching up on my blogging, and generally itching junky style to get back on the river as soon as possible. Next week the crew is heading to the North Fork of the White River, in the Show Me State of Missouri. We are going to do some filming, chase some tail (trout  and bass to be specific), and eat some corn (I guess that’s what you do in Missouri?).  All I have to say is that I am going to do my best to see if there is any truth behind these farmer’s daughter jokes I have been hearing (Wifey, I am only joking, I could never be attracted to a luscious, milky, corn-raised farm girl..seriously never…I love you, Honey).





Sticking Pigs On the Reservation Pictorial

27 03 2009

These are the pictures I finally tracked down from that trip to Cherokee a month ago.  The other guy is Nate, another guide from the shop.

 

One of the genetically mutated rainbow trout that has become part of the stocking fare at Cherokee

One of the genetically mutated rainbow trout that has become part of the stocking fare at Cherokee

 

Another view of that "Tracer" Trout

Another view of that "Tracer" Trout

 

Nate with an 8-9 lb. (if it's an ounce) Bow

Nate with an 8-9 lb. (if it's an ounce) Bow

 

Yours truly (just to prove the sun shines every dog's ass one day) with a battle scarred slab of a Bow and huge shit eatin' grin

Yours truly (just to prove the sun shines on every dog's ass one day) with a battle scarred slab of a Bow and a huge shit eatin' grin

 

Another one of me just you can't get arrested for being awesome

Another one of me because you can't get arrested for being awesome.

2 Guides…Six Hours….20 Landed….18 over 18″….Thank You Native Americans…..Thank You





Sticking Pigs on the Reservation

27 02 2009

I have fished the trophy water over in Cherokee a couple of times in the past week scouting for the season.  For anybody that doesn’t know about this water don’t read any further because there are already too many people there already.  This means all of you Georgia guys.  I got nothing against you guys but we already have every asshole from Florida up here and the infrastructure just can’t take you guys too.  The kind Native Americans have taken to stocking a lot of very big fish in a 2.2 mile stretch of river that is fly fish only, catch and release only.  When I say big fish I am referring to fish that are measured in pounds and not inches and make you start worrying about breaking your 6 weight when you have one on.  In order to fish this water you have to pay of course, but only seven bucks a day and a twenty dollar year pass.  This has officially become a public trophy trout club for the everyman.  The proletariat in me wants to bang my hammer and sickle and shout, “Fuck the elite”.  But as usual I just nod and wave and ask the elite if there’s anything I can do to help them out in hopes of getting a good tip.  Now that I have gotten a trophy club experience I have come to conclusion that these type of waters with pellet fed trophy stockers are really nothing more than a pay to play trout pond with water running through it.  This type of water is like a New Orleans hooker, fun at first but eventually maces you and steals your wallet (Didn’t happen to me but I know a guy).  Don’t get me wrong I have pulled fifteen or so bad mama jammas over 20″ out of that water the last two times I have gone and it hasn’t gotten old yet, but I fear like all things in life it will.  I just hope it doesn’t ruin 18″ trout for me.