Take a trip to Norway

Funky. In a good way. Worth the trip.

Lazy River from Northflexer on Vimeo.

Listen To the Fly

I haven't done a lot of tying this winter. I also haven't done a lot of fishing, which might be a contributing factor to the lack of vise time.

But over the last couple of days I've been waking up with the urge to tie something. I often wake up with the urge to go fish somewhere, but all too often my work or other responsibilities--not to mention frozen rivers--have kept me close to home.

But now I have this urge to tie, and the reason, I realized today, is that a window is opening for some quality time on the water somewhere. So I have begun to monitor the weather, and I have begun to tie some flies.

I had thought at first that I might make the drive down to Rocky Ford Creek again. But then I looked at what was coming off my vise. I was tying these with one image in my mind's eye: a fly swinging deep through a fast run and darting into every slot and pothole.

River. Time to get on the river.

"spring 14"

Some beautiful weather is slipping in around the edges of winter. I went ahead and created a new photo file for these pics and many more to come: "spring 14."

I was up past Bass Lake yesterday and the Redwinged blackbirds were carrying on a very loud conversation. On the way home I stopped at the west end of the lake and wound down through an orchard to get a view of some swans. We see them for a few weeks in the Fall and Spring.

Down at the other end I stopped to document ice out well under way.

Won't be long before the bass boats are lined up at this ramp and the swimmers are jumping off this dock.

And guys like me are stopping on the way home to cast up along this bank to see if any big bass are grazing the shallows.

Why I Don't Do Gear Reviews

Thank you, Norman Rockwell.

Dude, Check This Out: God Is An Astronaut

More post rock goodness. I love this genre for how the music flows free of the bonds of lyrics. You can just wade into the river of sound and lose yourself--or find yourself--in its flow.

These guys do it well. They're from Glen of the Downs, County Wicklow, Republic of Ireland, and they play music that has been said to "combine epic melodies of post rock, the precision of electronic-fueled Krautrock a la Tangerine Dream, and elements of space rock."

Take a listen and see what you think. Here's a sampler from their work.

 2007

2008

2010

"Genes" by Sharon Dunn

My eleven year old son wants to fish,
he owns two rods, one saltwater,
one freshwater. He loves knives,
Bowie knives, Swiss Army
knives, "Knives like this one?"
my brother says, opening his desk
drawer and taking out a small
jackknife with antler handle.
My boy camps outdoors, begs to sleep
outside, is always shooting
arrows, rubber band guns,
he is lashing together a fort
in the backyard. He sails,
swims, kayaks and wants
to know the stars.
The outdoor hunting genes
are in the dark men in my family.
Yet I believe he is a son of light.
His joy in reading, cooking
and piano are fanned
from the tinderbox
of his father's heart.
He will save rainforest,
he will grow vegetables,
keep horses, fly his own plane.
He will make his own brave life,
he will not remake our lives
nor redeem us, nor pity us.

"Genes" by Sharon Dunn, from Refugees in the Garden: A Memoir in Poems. © The Rose Press, 2009.

Happy Birthday, Ansel

It's the birthday of photographer Ansel Adams, born 1920, died 1984.

He said, "I hesitate to define just what the qualities of a true wilderness experience are. Like music and art, wilderness can be defined only on its own terms. The less talk, the better."

Yes. Just look. And see.

 The Tetons and the Snake River, 1942

Clearing Winter Storm, Yosemite National Park, 1937 

Evening, McDonald Lake, Glacier National Park, 1942

Moon and Half Dome, Yosemite National Park, 1963 

Aspens, Dawn, Dolores River Canyon, Colorado, 1937

Montana Fly Fishing Magazine, February - March 2014

Always good. Go HERE.

Flowing Free

Last week I went down to the river. The frigid temperatures had broken for a second time this winter, and a thaw was underway. Maybe the last one.

The ice was still thick, but it was going. As all things must go.

I looked at the thawing ice, a sign of hope, and felt a bleak coldness. A few nights before a woman had walked out on the town bridge, a mile or so upriver from us. She had taken off her coat and laid it down, climbed over the railing, and fallen through the darkness. In the morning light there was only her coat and a jagged hole in the ice.

So for most of a week we had been looking at the river and wondering where she was. And wondering so much more. We knew her troubled life; we knew her pain; we could even tell ourselves that she was now free of that pain. But at what cost? For we also knew her children, and we knew the way it should have been.

Once again life had confronted us with harsh mystery. No use to ask why. Seasons come and seasons go; life is given, and life is taken away. Nature looks at us with an unwavering gaze. No malice, no apology. As if to say, "Live! Make the most of the season you have. Do what you can. But this is how it will be."

The night before, I had driven across the bridge and seen flashing lights a quarter mile downstream on the river side of the road. The river was opening up, beginning to give up its secrets. She had been found.

This week I went down to the river again. Red winged blackbirds were calling in the evening fields.

The ice had broken up the night before and the river was flowing free.

Flowing as it has for generations, and as it will for generations to come.

Washing everything clean, and, even in the face of death, bringing new life once again.

This Could Be What Finally Gets You Through This Long Winter

I resisted for a few days, thinking it indelicate. But I finally felt it was my duty to share this brilliant survival tip with my friends in the cold and snowy east. Stay warm.

Sincere thanks to Fly Fishing in Yellowstone National Park, usually a sober and delicate source of information.

UPDATE: This comment came in: The problem occurs when you have a round toilet seat.
My comment: Time to get a new toilet seat.

This Is Fly, February - March 2014

Just in time for February and March.

Get it HERE.

Dry Fly and Sight Fishing Steelhead and Salmon

Say no more.

"The Song of Wandering Angus" by William Butler Yeats

"Jumping Trout" by Winslow Homer

I went out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor

I went to blow the fire aflame,

But something rustled on the floor,

And some one called me by my name:

It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dangled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.

"The Song of Wandering Angus" by William Butler Yeats, from The Collected Poems of W.B. Yeats. © Scribner, 1996.

Brookies Off the Beaten Path

Brookie heaven...

"Brookies off the Beaten Path"; Fly Fishing for Brook Trout in Oregon from Mountain Made Media on Vimeo.

The Clouds Blow Away...

And a full moon breaks out.