Christmas Buck

A thing of beauty is a joy forever.

Reading the Water: Valerie and Piscatology

Every fly fishing how-to book must have at least a chapter on it. Fly fishing mags crank out articles on it ad infinitum. Fly fishing experts-of-the-day line up to demonstrate how they have finally and personally cracked the code. I'm talking about "Reading the Water." You can't find the fish, so we're told, without reading the water.

All this advice falls somewhere on a spectrum between pure science and Zen. I have personally read beau coup words on the topic, and when I was a beginner I found the basics helpful. Rocks, current seams, pools, tailouts, etc. You'll catch some fish in those places, and figure you've got it figured out. Then one evening on the Pere Marquette you'll catch a big Brown while swinging a Mickey Finn in six inches of water over a gravel flat, and you'll realize there's a good dose of serendipity mixed in. So you'll start searching in places that shouldn't have fish in them, and by gum, sometimes they'll be there.

Yes, I know there's a "scientific" explanation why that Brown was there. But how do we know that Browns will sometimes forage in the shallows under low-light conditions? By catching them at it.

When you come right down to it, fish go where they want to, and for their own reasons. So it's not so much about reading the water as reading the fish. Some might want to do that by researching ichthyology and entomology before they even get to the water. Me, I'd rather do that by simply spending as much time in the water as I can. It's called piscatology, "the art or science of fishing." You put a fly out there in a variety of places and with a variety of presentations and see what the fish do. You just fish, and you find them or you don't, and you learn.

It's not rocket science. It's fishing.

I've been thinking about this recently because I'm now living on a new stretch of the river. I've been in it only twice, but I know at least twice as much about it as I did before I got my waders wet. At this point it's more like prospecting than "reading." I'm looking for fish. There might be areas more prime than others, but you can believe I'll give every run and riffle a good going over.

And pretty soon I'll find a fish, and then another and another--a Steelhead, a trout, a Whitefish, a Smallmouth--and a pattern will emerge, and I'll know just where I want to go at any given time. And then I can draw a diagram of this stretch of river to show people how to "read the water."

How about this: you can't read the water until you find the fish.

That's what happened on the other stretch of river I've fished over the last six years. It took a little while, but then fish started turning up on the end of my line, and one day I could wade across under the bridge, walk up to The Glide, and swing a fly right through the sweet spot, and once in awhile, miracle of miracles, find a technicolor dream waiting there for me. How did I know it was a sweet spot? I had consistently found fish there.

February, 2011

So I've been thinking about my niece Valerie. My brother Pete sent this email a few weeks ago.

I don't know if I've mentioned before that Valerie is a puzzle freak.  She always has one going on her dresser top.  Always.  We have lots of puzzles, and she's done some of them numerous times.  She usually starts with the sky, but not always.  She never looks at the picture on the box.  She ridicules anyone that does. 

She doesn't turn over all of the pieces immediately, and she doesn't care about edge pieces.  I've never seen her complete the outer edge of a puzzle at the outset.

I just went home at lunch and took these shots so you'd see what she's working on now.  I found the box and sat it on the puzzle so you can see how much white is on this 1000 piece job.

She's doing this on a space barely big enough for the finished puzzle.  She does it in layers. She'll eventually slide the top half up to its place.

Is that crazy, or what? When she finishes she won't make an announcement about it or revel in the accomplishment.  As soon as she locates another puzzle she'll put this one away and begin the other.

Over the holiday we had a card table up in the living room and had puzzles going the whole time.  Sheri, Daniel and I enjoyed taking stabs at them, but when Val would sit down, or just walk by, pieces really started getting in place.  She is fast.  It's creepy, in a wonderful sort of way.  She says it's all about seeing color, not the shape of pieces.

It's that last line that I've been thinking about: "She says it's all about seeing color, not the shape of the pieces." Thanks for that, Valerie. That's not crazy, that's piscatology.

Fly Tying: Connecting

Ah, January. Days are cold and getting longer. The earth is tilting by slow degrees ever closer to the sun.

Steelhead fin slowly past my house under a bright ceiling of ice.

My little study is still full of boxes and stacks of books, but I'm making progress. I uncovered the tying desk and unpacked the tying materials.

I laid everything out and dug into the bag of wool and peacock feathers given me by The Spinning Wheel Lady and went to work.

And a milestone was reached: the first flies tied in 2013, and in my new home. River flies, heavily weighted ideas.

And I experienced once again the magic of fly tying: even before it gets wet, even before it actually hooks a fish, and even in the deep of January, a fly springing from your mind into your hand immediately connects you in a visceral way to those bright forms out there under the ice.

Oh Boy

SCOTF, Winter 2013.  Good for the January doldrums. Check it out HERE. And try this on for size, from its bountiful pages. So, so nice.

Getting Out from Southern Culture on the Fly on Vimeo.

January River

The snow stopped a couple of weeks ago, the skies cleared, and the temperature dropped. Daytime highs have crept above freezing only a few times, and lows have consistently been in the low teens. That has done a work on the river.

I went down to the river yesterday to watch and listen to the flows and the floes.

I went outside again last night to listen to the river, and couldn't hear a thing. This morning revealed the reason for the silence.

It isn't completely silent. Every few minutes the ice pops, or gives off a muffled boom. But it doesn't look like it's going anywhere soon. Which means I won't be fishing anytime soon, either.

Chasing Chrome in BC

Some brightness for a dark winter's night. Nicely done glimpse of that Steelhead nirvana just to the north, and so tantalizingly close.

Chrome Chasers Chronicles - BC 2012 from Rick Kustich on Vimeo.

Memories and Something Tubey For the River

I tie on an HMH vise, and I like it a lot. I think I might have chosen it on my own for its classic design and sturdy functionality, but I had a little help. As soon as I decided to tie my own flies, my brother John, a co-owner of HMH Vises, gave me one. For free. When they got into tube flies he also gave me a complete tube tying set-up. I tied a few tube flies for awhile, but drifted away from them.

Now a new DVD from HMH has me thinking I need to revisit tube flies. The DVD will come with their tube tying kit and is designed for people new to tube flies. A teaser just came out on Facebook and on their website, and the rest will be posted in installments.

I admit, I was hooked as soon as I began to recognize people I knew or knew of. People like Craig Uecker--I fished with him and John on the Grande Ronde a few years ago, and Selene Dumaine--she ties superb salmon flies. And of course my brother, with a very nice Mainer Largemouth. He was proud of that big boy.

And then this guy. I don't think he told me I would be in the DVD, but what a treat to watch myself catching a nice trout in one of my favorite places on earth, what we call "The Back Channel" on the fabled Henry's Fork.

You can bet I remember that fish well. The day was working toward evening and the water was speckled with PMD's. Not a hatch, but the remains of an earlier hatch. There were plenty of little fish rising, but we were looking--unsuccessfully--for the tell-tale rises of big fish. We were hoping especially for some bank risers to begin working.

Then I saw a rise that seemed just a little different from all the rest. It was out in mid-river, and it was tiny--just a sip--but it was steady. The pods of little fish were cruising here and there, but this rise stayed put. So I cast to it and got a take. Just the tiniest little sip. I figured it must be a little guy after all. Even when I raised the rod and hooked him there was just a little tug. I think he was as surprised to be hooked as I was when he suddenly exploded. He lunged and ran and almost broke off before I finally got my act together and worked him to the net. All that commotion--and the fact I often talk to fish, especially when they're getting the best of me--got John's attention and he waded over with the video camera in time to capture me netting it.

That fish still had some fight in him when John snapped this photo.

What a beauty.

That was a nice fish, and it's fun to relive those moments. But that wasn't my biggest fish of the trip. That one came later.

But that's another story. Meanwhile, I'll look forward to the release of the rest of the DVD. And I think I'll get out my tubes and get a jump start on something tubey for the river.

River Report: Accomplishment

You finally manage to leave the house with the sole purpose of heading down to the river for the first fishing trip of 2013. You wader up in the garage, wade into the snow, and make your way down to the river bottom. Winter lies heavy on the silent land but the river runs quick and lively.

You push through the snow along the bluff and make your way toward the access. The hardest part of the trip will be slogging through the deep snow.

Once again the deer have been here before you, their tracks pointing the way to the shallow ford and your way into the river.

And then you're in the river again.

You're going to throw a sparkle stonefly nymph, a pattern that has brought you success before.

You start working downstream. You decide to go no deeper than thigh-high in the strong, frigid current. Maybe it's wise, or maybe you're just getting cautious in your old age. Even at that depth you can cover a lot of water, and you do.

It feels good to stretch your casting muscles. And you find yourself engrossed with every swing, and your mind races as it processes what you're seeing and feeling in the complex dance of the current, the undulation of the line, and the tension of the rod. This is new water--this is only your second time here--and you're eager to learn the lessons that the river tirelessly teaches.

You reach the limit of your wading and casting. Nothing has come to the fly. You wade back upstream and sit on the bank with your feet out of the icy water. You watch the flow and wiggle your toes methodically.

This time you wade upstream and fish back down. You know there are some chest-deep potholes along here because you inadvertently stumbled into them when you crossed the river back on your first trip in November. You're charmed by the glassy glide, the rippling rings of the water droplets you fling on your casts, and the smooth cutting of the line through the water on the slow, deep swings.

You don't find a fish, but you feel more ready than you have for a long time. You consider whether to go ahead and attempt the crossing and fish some more, but the light is beginning to wane, and the old familiar numbness is in your toes and the tips of your fingers. You wade back to the bank. Now all you have to do is climb back up.

You make it easily and start the slog back home, retracing your footprints. You feel good.

You know that feeling that fishermen get on days like this: even without a fish you've accomplished a lot.