Something Wicked This Way Comes (6/27/11)

The sky was overcast with a dark line of clouds crossing over the highway. Lightening crashed to earth all around the vehicle. “Those clouds look like they’re starting to rotate and I’m not fishing in lightening, or a tornado,” Average Joe Fisherman Scott said. “What do you want to do?” He asked. “Just keep going,” I said. “I’ve got a good feeling.”

The evening before, while having a movie night with my wife and daughter, watching the third installment in the Harry Potter series, the sky opened up and a deluge of water poured from the heavens. The rain came down in buckets, with the occasional cat and dog thrown in. With each flash of lightening, my excitement grew. “I’m trophy hunting tomorrow!” I thought.

As Scott and I pushed northward through rain that had not stopped since it began the day before, I began to become concerned that the streams would not be fishable due to high water with little to no visibility. Or, if the streams were fishable, that the fish would have developed lockjaw, already gorging themselves the day before.

My first concern was quickly put to rest as we approached our destination and crossed the first of several streams in the area. “Looks high, but the visibility is good,” I said excitedly to Scott. “Looks like were fishing!”

We suited up quickly as thunder rumbled off in the distance somewhere. Scott practically shoved me out of the way as he raced to the stream. Following on his heels, I watched him fish the first hole… nothing. “Uh oh, not the start I was looking for,” I thought. It took us a good twenty minutes before the first trout was brought to hand, a nicely colored nine inch brook trout. With the weather, I had expected the trout to be in a feeding frenzy, nailing our spinners with reckless abandon, giving chase to even the most errant of casts. That was not the case however. On this evening we had to work for the fish we caught.

About an hour in, thoughts of moving to a different section of stream danced around my head, but the good feeling had not faltered and was as strong as it had been earlier. Finally, I cast my spinner sidearm towards the right bank under an overhanging pine tree. The spinner rolled slowly out of the hole and directly in front of a log jam. My spinner stopped as I caught a log. I pulled back on my rod hoping to dislodge my spinner. The log pulled back. Feeling the large brown trout shake its head from side to side quickly caused me to realize that it was not a log my spinner buried itself into. After a nice battle, I held a deeply colored fifteen inch brown trout for the obligatory “grip and grin” photo.

At that point, Scott seemed to be getting a little discouraged. I had caught seven or eight trout to his two, including one well into the teens. “Just not my night,” he said shaking his head. “Don’t worry, your time is coming,” I replied. The feeling was still there, poking at me, prodding me. The day was getting darker. With mist falling from a gray bleak sky, I thought, “Something wicked this way comes!”

After a fishless stretch that spanned over an hour, it was almost time to call it quits. I had stepped out of the small stream to change spinners and stretch while I watched Scott fish. He approached a log that stuck out on a 90 degree angle from the right bank. The current rushed by at the end of the log forming a deep channel. Scott cast past the log and started to reel, retrieving his spinner. I stepped back into the stream. Watching where I was stepping, I took my eyes off Scott. When I looked back up, he had his rod tip in the air. “Got one?” I asked. “Got a fish?” I asked again. “Yup,” he replied. “Big one?” I asked. “Is it big?” I asked again. “Holy sh!t Ryan!” Then all hell broke loose. Scott’s rod doubled over. The fish, pulling line off Scott’s reel, screamed downstream heading right for me. Backpedaling quickly, I got out of the way. I was not going to be the reason this fish came unbuttoned. The large fish then stopped, sitting at the bottom of the deep run. Scott couldn’t budge it. “I can’t move it! Now what?” He asked. Finally the fish started to shake its powerful head and Scott gained some ground. The fish rose to the surface, showing its first sign of weakness. Scott and I both looked at each other, stunned. With a quick decisive move, Scott grabbed the brown trout by its tail. The fish measured at exactly twenty inches. Patting Scott on the back, I said, “They don’t get much bigger than that in a stream of this size!” And just like that, Scott was finally able to join the twenty inch club.

Fish, Boats and Father's Day (6/23/11)

Memories are a strange thing to me. What is it about a certain moment in time that causes it to be permanently etched in the mind? Why do we remember some things and forget others? Most of the memories I have, or at least the ones that come to mind right now, seem to be of some kind of significance. But then again, there are a few that seem to have no substance whatsoever.

It is a rare occasion to have the presence of mind to realize that a memory is being created while it is happening. Only a moment of such significance can cause you to be swept away by it, lost in its magnitude, a moment so rare that it is all encompassing, polarizing, and more precious than the rarest of diamonds. A moment like that happened to me this past Father’s Day weekend. What was it, you ask? Was it the birth of my second child… winning the lottery… no, my wife put on her waders!

Many years ago, when I was a younger man, I was introduced to a blazing beautiful girl while working. As it turned out, she was hired by the same company I worked for and was to be my co-worker. Over the next few months I learned about the person she was, her interests, her dreams, what made her tick. While I, in the words of Brad Paisley, wanted to check her for ticks.

While telling her about myself, I mentioned that my one true love, at least to that point in my life, was trout fishing. Curious, she asked me to take her. So I did. She really seemed to take to it. Not the fishing so much, but she seemed to like being in the streams and rivers, walking amongst nature. A short time later she had her first pair of waders, purchased for her by my father. She accompanied me on many of the trips when I did not have a fishing partner, and I thoroughly enjoyed our time together. It wasn’t long until we were married… and her waders didn’t see the light of day again for 16 years! My wife would tell you it is because I didn’t know when to stop fishing. “Just one more bend,” I’d say, when she was ready to call it quits an hour before. She has a point really. I think it is harder for me to call it a day while fishing than it is for a smoker to quit smoking.

The day was beautiful. The sun shined down like God was smiling from up above. Large billowy bright white clouds wafted overhead. The breeze moved the leaves on the trees and cooled our skin. My wife and daughter explored and I fished. My daughter played with frogs and my wife discovered the largest crayfish I have ever seen. We sat on the bank together and ran our hands in the cool water. We held hands while walking upstream. My daughter and I ate a sweet-tart every time I caught a fish. And all the while I knew a memory was being etched into my mind... one that I will relieve for years to come.

I hope your Father’s Day was as good as mine – The Average Joe Fisherman

My Stanky Leg (6/20/11)

When you spend a lot of the time on the stream pursuing trout, strange things are going to happen. I have written in the past of almost being shot, being stalked by deer and realizing I left my boots at home after a two hour drive. While crazy things can happen on any given fishing expedition, many more days go according to plan. All the gear gets packed, fish are caught, memories are made and pictures get taken. This past Wednesday was not one of those “according to plan” days.

Average Joe Fisherman Scott arrived at my house right on time in his new truck. After quickly admiring his truck on my part, we were on our way. Hurtling north on I-75 at almost eighty miles an hour, we arrived a small trout stream in a little more than an hour and a half. Hopping out of the truck, I quickly started to suit up. The trout were calling me! Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Scott’s melon of a head sink as he rifled through the container that holds his fishing gear. Turns out Scott forgot his waders. After the last trip he hung them up to dry and was planning to give them a good cleaning and, in his hurry to head north, forgot to pack them.

Being the friend I am, or try to be, I offered to pack up and head home. “No way,” Scott said. “One way or another, I’m fishing!” After exhausting every possibility, the decision was made that he would wet wade. Now, wet wading is not normally a big deal. Wet wading Average Joe Fisherman style however, is. The only clothes Scott had was the pair of blue jeans he was wearing. After rolling them up as far as he could, we started to walk across a bridge and down to the stream. What a sight he was… fishing boots and what looked like women’s Capri pants.

Pausing on top of the bridge, Scott noticed a flash in the rifle directly below. Casting his spinner some twelve feet down to the run and bringing it slowly into position, a brook trout grab hold. Reeling the fish up out of the river, he brought it to hand. “Now that’s impressive,” I said. “But watch out for the release, it’s a long way down!”

After Scott got over the shock of how cold the water was, we started to fish. It didn’t take long until I was holding my first brook trout of the evening. While brook trout generally run smaller than rainbow and brown trout, I believe them to be the prettiest trout. Over the next few hours, both Scott and I caught several of them between us. In addition to the brookies, Scott was able to entice a few small brown trout with his offering.

As the evening started to wind down we approached a sharp bend in the stream. The bend was completely shrouded by large thick pine trees. Trees littered the far bank with many of them lying in the deep water and piled up at the end of the bend. “That is a brown trout bomb shelter if I have ever seen one!” I said to Scott. I stepped up onto the right bank to walk around a down pine tree that was half in the water and half out. Once I had a clear casting lane, I let my spinner fly. With Scott looking over my left shoulder we witnessed a large brown come from the depths to inspect my spinner with his teeth. I quickly set the hook. The trout shook his head once and came unbuttoned. “Ugh!” Scott, rubbing it in, almost mockingly, said, “Nice fish!” Stepping to the side, I said, “Finish the hole.” Scott stepped into the stream on what looked like sand and promptly sunk to his knee in muck. Scott, screaming like a little girl, said, “That’s nasty!” Laughing, I helped pull him out. After removing his boot and inspecting for leeches, we continued on.

About thirty minutes before calling it a day, Scott, as he had done many times earlier, grabbed a handful of jeans to pull them up. This time however, the material on his right leg gave away with a loud tearing sound. For some reason he did not find this as funny as I did. By the time we stepped out of the little stream, Scott had a huge hole in his jeans over his right thigh and two more of over both pockets in the back, exposing his underwear to everyone who chose to look in that direction. While he did not find much humor in how he looked, I laughed all the way back to the truck. I suggested to Scott that he stick his right leg through the large hole in the front of his jeans so it would not itch on the ride home from the wet pant leg rubbing. He thought that seemed like a good idea until the lady at McDonalds went to hand him our food. Scott, looking like he was wearing a pair of Daisy Duke cutoffs on one leg and women’s Capri pants on the other, fruitlessly tried to cover his bare leg sparing the drive-thru lady from having to see him that way. I asked him, as she approached the truck, what he was doing? “Hiding my stanky leg!” came the response. I laughed the rest of the way home. Just another Average Joe Fisherman fishing trip!

Impressive (6/13/11)

Another Wednesday… another fishing trip. This past Wednesday proved a little different than most of my fishing trips this year in that, as it turned out, I fished with Donny P. It is hard to fathom, but this was the first time Don and I had fished together since before the start of trout season. While I consider Don one of my best friends, there is something you should know about him. Don plays in a different sandbox than I do. He owns an expensive top-of-the-line truck that I do not believe has seen dirt and his other car is a Cadillac that I am pretty sure, if it saw dirt, would turn around a go home. So if Don wants to do some trout fishing he is pretty much resigned to riding shotgun in my truck. He’s my b*tch! Ok, so it’s not exactly like that. (I only call Don my b*tch until he threatens to stop tying flies for me!)

We were in my truck and pointed north by 4:00. With only one stop needing to be made for gas and McDonalds, the trip was relatively quick. I find that the trips north seem shorter when there is good company along for the ride. (Yes I know I am sucking up now, but I did just call the guy a b*tch!) On the drive north, I asked Don where he wanted to fish since he doesn’t get to fish as much as I do. “Oh no, I’m not picking the river or the stretch! I read your last blog post and there is NO WAY you are blaming it on me if the fishing sucks!” Well alrighty then! I gave it some thought and not only picked our destination, but the method in which we would fish as well.

When we left my house it was hot, on its way to 96 degrees, and I had a hunch that, with those kinds of temps, there would be a good hatch. Once again however, I was wrong. Just when I begin to think I really know what I am doing, the weather brings me back down to reality. There was no hatch because it was extremely windy, windier that when we left home in fact. The wind was strong enough to penetrate the trees and hit the river with enough force to put a chop on the water. Needless to say, fly fishing was off the table.

With spinning gear in hand, Don and I tried our best to put fish stink on our hands over the last few hours of remaining daylight. In that short period of time, I was both amazed and impressed with how many fish we saw. (Note: In the previous sentence I said “saw” not “caught.”) It seemed on every cast a small brown or rainbow trout would give chase… sometimes four fish at a time. It is nice to know that particular river is, and will continue to be, an excellent fishery. Generations to come, like me, will be able to know the frustration of not catching fish, although they can see with their own eyes that there are plenty in the river.

At the end of the day, we handled our share of trout. Both Don and I caught several browns and several rainbows. The fishing was almost as good as the company, (sucking up again). My best trout of the trip was a gorgeous 16 inch brown trout that I was able to land after a spectacular battle. How many fish over 12 inches did Donny P catch? None! Take that b*tch! :)

Pressure (6/6/11)

3:30! (Somewhere in the back of my mind I heard a school bell ring.) I grabbed my attaché, gave my boss a quick wave and headed for door. “I hope no one wants to talk to me on my way out, cause there’s not a chance in hell I’m stopping to chat!” I thought. It was time to fish!

Last year I was loner when it came to fishing. More times than not, I found myself fishing alone on Wednesdays as the other Average Joes always seemed to have more important things to do. Well, when you’re a third generation trout fisherman, a trout fisherman who, like his father and his father before him, spent more time on the rivers, streams and creeks than most people, there isn’t much that is more important than fishing. Besides, there is peace and comfort to be had when fishing alone. It is amazing to me how I am able to discover more about myself while fishing five to six hours than I can working a forty hour week. With that being said, I still would rather fish with one of the few people I choose to call “friend.”

So far this trout season I have been very fortunate to have fished only once or twice by myself and this past Wednesday was no different, although we did get off to a slower start than usual thanks to Scott being late. I had planned, when he pulled into my driveway, to tell him that it was too late to head out since our fishing time was already limited. Fear of him throwing the car into reverse and heading north without me prevented me from trying to joke around however. During the drive, Scott asked the question that someone always asks when headed to an area that has several A+ trout streams… “Where do you want to fish?”

Don’t let the seeming simplicity of that question fool you. At face value the question seems harmless. It only has six words in it after all. The fact of the matter is, that particular question comes with an enormous amount of pressure because, while Scott and I enjoy fishing, we love to CATCH fish. So you can understand how neither one of us take that question lightly. We discuss the effects of weather, traffic patterns and degree of difficulty to access before landing upon a decision. I, however, being the friend that I am, turned it right back around on Scott by saying, “You don’t get to fish as often as I do, so why don’t you choose?” I had pulled the pin and tossed the grenade. I followed up by saying, “Keep in mind that, if the fishing sucks, it’s your fault for picking the wrong stretch, but no pressure.” That’s right! I said it… because that’s what friends do!

Scott chose a stream that was wide enough for us to fish side-by-side. Arriving at our destination we quickly geared up and started to fish. Within the first few casts Scott caught a small brown trout, followed by another. I too started catching fish right away. Over the next four hours we caught several fish. The best of the evening being a fourteen inch, beautifully colored brown, that I caught. Upon landing and releasing the trout, I quickly pointed out that it was I who caught the largest trout of the trip. Scott smiled and proceeded to keep fishing. I mentioned that it was starting to get dark and that we should head back to the vehicle. Scott kept fishing. Right at dark, Scott placed an excellent cast right along an undercut bank. One turn of the reel, his spinner started to turn and then… chaos. A large brown trout, after grabbing his spinner, exploded out of the water, not once, but three times. Scott was vastly outclassed by the large fish, not by his skills, but the ultra-light gear he had in hand. After what seemed like an eternity, Scott held the trout as I put a tape measure to it… sixteen inches. “Now we can go,” Scott said as he smiled at me, his smile saying, “Eat that Carter!”

In the end, Scott chose wisely.

Bikinis, a Tribute and Tons of Fish Porn (conclusion) (5/31/11)

In my lifetime I have heard men greater than I, speak. From Neil Armstrong to George Bush Sr. I have sat and listened to men who aspired to be something bigger… better… to have an impact on this world. I sat in astonishment as John Glenn described how small and fragile our atmosphere is. I have been entertained as the men from Pike Place Fish Market whipped fish over my head while telling me how their occupation relates to mine. No matter the speaker however, one thing has always remained constant, regardless whether the speaker spoke of motivation, self-help, industry, politics, or their personal experiences. The “constant” I speak of is the fact that, while I enjoyed a great number of the speakers I have witnessed, I couldn’t relate to whatever it was they were trying to sell me. I did not strive to be something bigger or better than I was. I didn’t want to change the world. I felt that if I embarked to achieve something that paralleled the achievements of the individuals I sat and listened to that I would miss something, something that was much more important.

Throughout my life thus far, I have never been motivated to be extraordinary. I was a “B” student all the way through my Master’s Degree. The first time my soon-to-be wife and I worked together, she called me a “slacker.” To say I’m underachiever is an understatement… with one exception.

Three days after returning from vacation in Siesta Key, Florida this year, my Father-in-law passed away unexpectedly. He was only 67 years old. I first met Dave when I was seventeen… he was my first boss. Over the years, I was fortunate enough to learn from him; learn about work, family, being a good person and life in general. Years later I met Dave’s daughter and asked her to marry me. (To this day, she is still the best decision I have ever made.) When I asked Dave for his daughter’s hand, he stood, shook my hand and said, “Welcome aboard!” That is the way it was with Dave. He viewed himself as a Captain. Someone whose job it was to help others, to guide them through rough waters, to hold them up when they couldn’t stand on their own and to offer support and encouragement whenever he could. At his wake, a friend said that “Dave was great… a great husband… a great father… and a great friend.”

Many times over the years, I have sat and listened to Dad not knowing at the time how his words were shaping me… effecting me. Now, at a time when I cannot say “thank you,” I realize that it is because of him, and the impact that I have witnessed him have on others, that I understand what truly is important in this life, something that all the other speakers I have witnessed failed to do. It is because of him that I strive to have a positive impact on all those I come in contact with… to be the best person I can be… the best father… the best husband… the best friend. And for that I am forever grateful.

The day Dad passed away, he was on vacation in Florida. With little discussion, I sent my wife and her sister to Florida to be with Mom. After they departed, I found myself alone. Once I arrived back home from the airport, I did the only thing I could think of… I went fishing.