FLY FISHING LIFE - WordPress.com · (table of contents) 6 8 38 New Gear Peacock Bass in the Amazon...

Peacock Bass in the Amazon by Mikey Weir

Casting for Distance by Al Kyte

FLY FISHING LIFEMAGAZINE

The Online Magazine of the Fly Fishing World

Volume One, Number Three

The Art of Angling images by Ken Baldwin

President and Publisher:Bob Porter

Editor:Matt Paluch

Artistic Director:Francesca D’Amore

Contributing Editors:Mikey WierArt DollossoAl Kyte

HOW TO CONTACT US

For Advertising Inquiries:Fly Fishing Life Magazine154 Road I.4 NEMoses Lakes, WA 98837707-704-9117

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From the Publisher

This month we have the pleasure of introducing you to some new faces.Ken Baldwin is an Alaskan Fly Fishing Guide and ac-complished photographer and is this month’s featured artist in our Art of Angling presentation.Michael Doherty (Big Sam, the Fire, & the Logjam) will be familiar to some of you who venture into some of the online boards around fly fishing. He’s a welcome addi-tion to angling literature.Someone who I admire as both a first class fisherman and a literate writer will be familar to those of you who have been around the Golden Gate Angling & Casting Club in the last 20 years or so, Art Dolosso (Fifty Fish Day) is a known provocateur of the first order and worth reading anytime.

Bob Porter, [email protected]

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(table of contents)

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New Gear

Peacock Bass in the Amazonby Mikey Wier

The Art of Anglingby Ken Baldwin

FLY FISHING LIFEMAGAZINE

The Online Magazine of the Fly Fishing World

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Going for Distanceby Al Kyte& Gary Moran

Big Sam, the Fire, & the Logjamby Michael Doherty

Tips - Proper Rod Careby Matt Paluch

A Fifty Fish Dayby Art Dolosso

New Gear

A year of testing by us has shown what MIl-Spec re-ally means. You can read things like: They meet Military 810 C,D,E and F and IP54/55 specifications for shock, rain, humidity, salt fog, vibration, sand/dust, tempera-ture shock, high and low temperature, have 89 as-signable UHF frequencies, or 122 analog codes.

But until you have used these in the outdoors 2 miles up a canyon from your friend and have it sound like he’s right next to you, you haven’t actually experi-enced the difference between the 2-way radios from Radio Shack and the real thing.

Then, just as we get convinced it is the most rugged, best sounding, longest distance 2-way radio ever built, they come out with an improved version. These are not cheap at $200-300, but these are not your kid’s walkie-talkies. This is some-thing that can stand up to the great outdoors and put you back in contact when your cell phone has long ago forgotten where you are.Thomas Engineering is the largest dealer of these in the country and caters mostly to the industry and security companies. They mostly sell sets of 6 or 12 of these, but will sell pairs to interested fly fishermen.

Thomas Engineering at their ebay store or call them directly at (800) 667-4829.

Motorola

RDX Professional 2-Way Radios

I have always been fascinated with Peacock Bass. When Andy Burk, manager of the Reno fly shop, mentioned I might be able to join him on a trip to the Brazilian Amazon, I knew it would be a chance to see one of these mighty fish in their native habitat. The Peacock Bass’ brightly colored physique and legendary fighting skills have earned it a place in most anglers’ top sought after species list, including mine.

I had first seen photos of the legendary Amazon Bass in a field and stream magazine when I was a kid. At the time I was a huge largemouth bass fish-erman and my jaw dropped when I saw that big brightly colored Bass. Pho-tos of these magnificent fish really stand out on a page. The first thing you notice about them is their bright green, yellow and orange coloration and the big spot on their tail that resembles that of a Peacock’s tail feather.

I vowed right then and there that I would have to try to go and catch one of those fish some day.

For me it was a chance to fulfill a dream. Also I knew it would make for a great destination for the new Ultimate Adventure of Fly Fishing film I was working on called SOULFISH. What better person to go with than Andy Burk. I knew from the start that I wanted Andy to be one of the characters in the movie, so it worked out perfectly.

A trip into the Amazon is a trip into the unknown. For most, it is an unfath-omable landscape characterized by impenetrable jungle and dark murky rivers. While the Amazon basin holds the largest density of bio diversity

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Photo by Mikey Wier

on this planet and nearly one fifth of the world’s fresh water, much of it still remains a mystery. The only stories I had heard of the Amazon were those of hostile natives armed with spears and poison tipped blow darts, parasitic needle fish, man eating piranha, poison frogs and spiders, jaguars and giant pythons. When invited on a camping trip up a remote tributary, all I could envision was a scene out of the Heart of Darkness.

I pictured Andy holding a machete with his face painted black and leading a pack of flesh eating headhunters.

Photo by Mikey Wier

Back in real life, Andy is a heck of a guy. Andy has shown me that fly fishing can be an endless medium for creative expression. He has been fly-fishing since he was a boy and studies it like a religious fanat-ic. Andy has managed to base his entire life around the sport of Fly-Fishing. He currently manages the Reno Fly shop. On his days off, he goes fishing. In his spare time, he ties flies for himself and his friends. Andy is currently the top fly designer for Umpqua feather merchants. When Andy doesn’t feel like tying, or isn’t in the mood, he is busy painting pictures of fish. Andy also is an avid writer on the subject of fly-fishing and has a monthly column in Cali-fornia Fly-Fisher called At the Vice. Many people credit Andy with being an encyclopedia of fishing knowl-edge. Andy can recite lines from almost every book ever written on the subject as well as pull from over 30 years of fishing experience. If you have a question about fly-fish-ing, chances are Andy will have an answer for you. If he doesn’t, he’s not the type of guy who will just make something up. There couldn’t

be a better trip host for me to take my first journey to the Amazon with. Andy had already been fishing there several times, so I was confident he knew the ropes.

I was part of a group of guys from around the Reno area that were go-ing for the week. Andy had left a week earlier, to host another group, so our plans were to meet up with him in the jungle. My journey start-ed out with a flight from Reno to Miami where I met up with the rest of our group that consisted of Char-lie, Mike, Bo, Evan, Steve and Rol-land. We all spent the night in Miami. The next morning, with some time to kill, we went to check out the IGFA fishing hall of fame. It turned out Bo Nelson was a record hunter and already held 14 world records on the fly rod. Later that afternoon, we boarded our flight to Manaus, Brazil. The flight itself is only about 5½ hours. By the time you go through security on our side, and customs in Brazil, there are several extra hours of airport time involved. After spending the night in a very luxurious hotel in Manaus, we 13

boarded a smaller airplane at a small airstrip outside the main city and headed out over the jungle.

As we flew out over the city I could see the size of the city and even more spectacular, the size of the Amazon River for the first time. The first thing I noticed was the logging surrounding the developed areas. Huge patches of jungle had been completely cleared away, leav-ing huge reddish brown scars in an otherwise completely green land-scape. Soon all signs of people faded away, and we were flying over completely virgin stands of primary rain forest. It was an amazing sight to be looking as far as I could see in all directions and seeing nothing but the green canopy of the Amazon Jungle. I felt as if I was looking at the lungs of our planet. Seeing this huge expanse of untouched, com-pletely intact, jungle eco system, after seeing the logging near town, really made me think twice about the origins of that nice Brazilian hard wood flooring I have seen in the stores back in California.

The landscape was flat for as far

as we could see. The only feature to the sea of green was the occa-sional river. The first small river we crossed looked like someone had dropped a tea colored silk ribbon onto a marbled green shag carpet. It just wandered and meandered down through the jungle like a skinny snake through short grass. There were huge bends and winds and braids. From the air there was no

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figured I would certainly try. My mind was running wild with sce-narios. I figured I would try to find my way to the first piece of water, where I could make a raft and try to float down until I came to some civilization. A couple of the other guys chimed in and said “no way!” Just kill me. After a couple hours over the jun-gle we came to a small slashed out dirt airstrip. There was nothing but a couple small buildings there on the side of the strip. As we circled around and came down for our landing, we flew low over a large dark brown colored river. Even from the air, I could see the water’s surface erupt from some kind of fish activity. The excitement really started to get to me at that point. As soon as the plane came to rest at the end of the strip, several lo-cal kids came running out to see the next group of gringos, in hopes someone would have some candy for them. I had some stickers in my bag that I had brought for just such an occasion. They were a big hit with the kids. I’m sure they had no idea what the brands were that were being represented. I

way to tell which way the water was flowing.

Bo Nelson and I made some conver-sation to the effect of “Do you think you could survive if the plane went down and you had to find your way out of here?” I

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guess it didn’t really matter because I watched the first few end up in some poor kids hair anyway.

Our time on the ground was short lived. Within minutes we boarded an even smaller floatplane and were again off into the air. About twenty minutes later, we began to circle a nice looking river called the Jufari. The water was tea colored and even from the air I could see there was at least a few feet of visibility. The main difference I noticed right off the bat from the other pieces of wa-ter we had passed, was that there were nice big bars of perfect white sand around every bend. The land-ing was a bit sketchy. We came bombing into a long straight sec-tion on the river. Once on the wa-ter, the plane started to pull to one side and toward the bank. The pilot corrected with the wind rudders on the wing and we jerked around a bit then came to a stop unharmed. We pulled up on an island of white sand in the middle of the river. Four smaller metal skiffs showed up out of nowhere and we loaded our gear on them and headed off.

Immediately the hot humid air grabbed my skin and the vi-brant smells of the jungle foliage filled my nose.

The river was a light tea color and I could see at least a few feet, if not more, down into it. There was thick jungle lining either side of the river. My ears focused in on the many squawks and chirps of the different types of birds. As we mo-tored along, I scanned the jungle for animals or birds. It was a thick dense mesh of all shades of green. There were several types of plants all competing for the same area to live. From the waters very edge to a couple hundred feet in the air, plants were growing on top of other plants and vines and flowers filled all the gaps in between.

As we rounded the corner, the tent camp came into sight. There were a couple larger boats, and six big barge tents all pulled up onto a nice white sand bar. I could see Andy

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waiting for us on the beach with a big smile on his face. As the boats pulled up one by one, Andy greeted us all with a nice firm hand shake and said, “Welcome to the Jufari River. You boys are in for some fun!” A young looking Brazilian kid showed up with a tray of ice filled cocktails. Andy said “Don’t worry about your gear, the guides

will take it to your tents. Grab a cold drink and meet me in the main tent over here.” After introduc-ing us to the camp manger, a dark skinned lady named Bebe, Andy gave us all a little orientation on how things worked around there and what we could expect for the week. As Andy went over the numbers of fish they had all caught the week be-

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Photo by Mikey Wier

fore, our jaws were dropping. The numbers seemed ridiculous. He also mentioned that there had been two Jaguar sightings that week, which intrigued me greatly. Then finally came the words I wanted to hear. “Go grab your rods, let’s do a little fishing before dinner.” Within min-utes, Evan and I were out on the wa-ter and casting. I got my first bass within the first few casts and Evan wasn’t far behind. We each caught

20 or so fish in just over an hour.

Our first full day on the water didn’t disappoint. I had planned on not fishing much, because my main goal was to get some good footage of Andy. It worked out well. Andy wanted to spend some time fishing with some of the other guests on the first day, so I was able to get some fishing time in. It was a good way to get it out of my system. That way

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I could be more patient with my filming the next day. My bunkmate and fishing partner was Evan First-man. The dude is a riot. We had a blast. Our guide Decko was a small guy, standing only 4 and a half feet tall. He was the only one of all the guides who was born in that area and lived in a village along one of the rivers for most of his life. He really knew the waterways and even better, the wildlife. Right off the bat Decko stopped the skiff along a long deep bank with lots of trees lining it. Many of the trees were hanging over into the water and it looked like perfect Bass habitat. Evan and I both started casting and fish started appear-ing out of every nook and cranny and grab-bing at our flies.

We both hooked several nice fish in the first half an hour.

The way it works, is that the Guides get a bonus for the boat that counts the greatest number of Bass by the

end of the week. There are several different species of fish that live in the Amazon in addition to Peacock Bass. All kinds of things like Pira-nha, Aurawana, matchatca, Treare, Dog Fish, and Jacunda to name a few. The guides don’t count any of these species and they are consid-ered trash fish by most. Personally I liked the variety of other species. I’m into multi species Fly-Fishing. The guides only count the Peacocks, or Tuckanary’s as they call them. There are three different species that live in this region. The variety that is very dark and has lots of small white and yellow dots, are called Packa. The most famous variety is the Asuel. They are typically green with three big black bars down the side of their bodies. Then there is a cross between the two, called the Packa-Asuel. When the fish are young, they are called Butterfly Pea-cocks. The smaller butterflies are characterized by three distinct dots along their side. Because the guides get a bonus for the largest number of Bass boated, they keep meticu-lous count. Also, they are on you to keep fishing from sun up to sun down.

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Even and I continued to work our way down the long deep bank. About two thirds of the way down the stretch of bank that was about a half mile or so, I saw a big downed tree. I was in the bow at the time, so I got to cast my fly in there first. A pack of four huge fish came rushing out and the point fish grabbed my fly. The impact was so great that it almost jerked my 10 wt. Rod right out of my hand. I regained my composure and got the fish on the

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Photo by Mikey Wier

That night over dinner, the stories were ridiculous. Almost everyone on the trip had landed fish over ten pounds and some people had got as many as three over ten.

The next morning I awoke stoked knowing I was going to get to fish with Andy that day. Andy had been in the Amazon for a week before we had arrived and his fish count for the trip was already up into the hundreds. I knew I should be film-ing almost every cast because there was no way to tell which one would produce the Twenty Pounder. Our morning started off in a big lagoon off the main river. As the river winded down and around the cor-

reel. He was a real brut. The bright fish took lots of hard runs trying to wrap me in the brush. He even made a couple acrobatic leaps and tried to tangle me in the sticks like a baby tarpon in the mangroves. I finally landed him and Evan got a nice photo. The best part was that I had gotten the whole thing on film as well. I had my camera set up on a tripod and pointed at me on the bow. That photo alone would have already made my entire trip. A few minutes later, I hooked and landed another fish that was even bigger. That really put the icing on the cake and relieved my “jones” enough that I could now concentrate on filming Andy.22

Photo by Mikey Wier

goal quickly became to capture a truly big fish on film. Most of the morning went along with plenty of fish, but none over a few pounds. Finally after lunch, we started to fish a nice big brush pile at the opening of a big lagoon. As Andy cast his fly near the pile, a school of “Grandes”, as the guides call them, came rushing out. There must have been seven or eight fish over ten pounds. It was a true sight to see. Andy pulled the point fish off the

ners, it formed several large lagoon ponds off the main channel that were usually accessible by the boat. Some you could just drive right up in, and others you had to drag the boat through small openings in the trees. This Lagoon was a larger one and we started working the shore-line with precise casts along the bank and retrieved back towards the boat. Andy immediately started rip-ping fish. It was no big challenge to get some shots of hooking up. The

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Photo by Mikey Wier

flipped my fly out behind Andy’s. I got a grab from a huge fish, but couldn’t set the hook. From then on, the goal became to get a double hookup on fish over Ten. The only problem was I wanted to film, and fishing and filming at the same time doesn’t work. Andy landed the fish

pack and started to fight him into the open water. As he got closer to the boat, I could see that there were several other large fish still hanging with him. Our guide that day, Pepe, was yelling with hysteria. As I con-tinued to try to film with one hand, I grabbed my rod with the other and

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also a bit clearer than the main river. We drove the boat up until the water got too skinny to navi-gate, and then drifted back down. It was pure insanity. There was a fish on almost every cast. Most were small Peacocks in the 1-4 pound range, but occasionally a bigger guy would show. Sometimes, there would be packs of 15 fish or more fighting over the fly. At one point a fish grabbed Andy’s fly and mid-way through the fight, another fish grabbed the fly out of his mouth and got hooked. The old fish swit-charoo. One of the highlights was when Andy decided to imitate the Austrian speed fishing champion-ships. He got a fish on every cast for like 10 in a row. It was pure craziness with a fly rod.

Then to top it off, as we reached the confluence with the main river chan-nel, there was a deep bucket at the head of a small lagoon. Andy cast his fly over the shelf into the deep

and when I offered to snap a photo, he said, “Naw, it’s just another 10 pounder”.

Later that afternoon, Pepe drove us up a small tributary to the main river. The water was smaller, but

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Photo by Mikey Wier

ing. My very favorite is when he starts singing British rock songs from the 80’s. I on the other hand love to make up my own words to well known classics like; Knocking on Fishes Door and Welcome to the Jungle.

Andy spends several months before these trips every year tying flies for himself and the other guests. An-dy’s are among the best flies for the Amazon I have ever seen. Rob An-derson, another Reno Fly Shop em-ployee also had a deadly pattern and we had some of those on board too. I was confident that many a fish would fall mercy to Andy’s deadly cast. Some of the most fun ‘takes’ to watch come on Andy’s skate rat. It’s like a huge mouse pattern tied in shades of pink, black and orange. It pop’s and wiggles along the surface and fish just hammer it. The week before I was there, Andy caught a 16 pounder on one. Bummed I missed that. Andy is super creative with his flies. Each one has years of thought and technique built into it. This year, Andy noticed a new minnow with a bright red tail. That night over cocktails, we sat down at

water and a pack of Grandes came charging out. Andy stripped un-til he ran out of line, then changed the rod angle and pulled the fly an extra couple feet in the other direc-tion. One grabbed his fly just feet from the boat, making for one of the best visuals I have ever had in this sport. As Andy fought the fish, it moved into some shallower water. We could clearly see its buddies still hanging out with it wondering what was happening. It was a big Packa, the hardest of the fighters. When we finally boated it, Andy modestly tried to refuse a photo again, but this time I insisted.

Fishing with Andy is a trip. He’s perpetually stoked, but also very humble and modest. We just cast and talk all day. Andy NEVER runs out of things to talk about. Our con-versations wander from new fishing techniques to making fun of mutual friends, bad movies, and new jokes, past relationships and back to fish-ing again seamlessly. There’s a lot of swearing, trash talking, and tacky jokes that keep me constantly enter-tained. By the end of the day, my stomach usually hurts from laugh-26

27Photo by Mikey Wier

another stellar day of fishing to say the least. We banged ‘em up pretty good. This time I fished a large portion of the day too. There was lots of trash talking, lots of double hookups and lots of fish landed. Our guide Pepe, was stoked because his fish tally was going up quick. In fact I saw him actually smile at one

the vice and Andy created a perfect rendition and named it the Trig-ger Tail Minnow. I tied up my own version and decided to name it the Little Red Rocket after my buddy’s dog’s wiener.

Day three ended up with Andy and I in the same boat again. It was 28

Pepe’s perpetual frown, Andy and I were having the time of our lives.

At one point, we saw a huge Bass sitting over a shallow sand bar. Andy threw several casts over it while I rolled the camera. It looked interested, but then turned off. I’d never seen a bass that big in my entire life. Right after that, we stopped for lunch just a bit further down the beach. I decided to jump out and go for a stroll through the jungle. I came to a little secret la-goon where I stopped to use the potty. As I was crouched down in the bushes a pack of giant Amazon Otters came swimming up. They were all milling around in front of me and hadn’t seen me yet. I was able to watch them for sev-eral minutes before they moved off to deeper water. Then I got to my camera and rolled some film on them for anther fifteen minutes. They swam around some logs and dead wood looking for fish and whatever else to eat. There were six of them and at all times, there was at least two looking up and watch-ing out, while the others dove and

point. The rest of the time he had super sour face. Andy said they had pulled up to a small village the week before and Pepe ran up to talk to a young girl. It looked like Pepe got dumped because she was shaking her head and saying “No Pepe, No!” From that point on it was Pepe sour face for the rest of the trip. Despite

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The day ended in a nice lagoon with a small stream like entrance. We pulled the boat up the shallow open-ing through the trees and were soon in the middle of a small pond like lagoon. Andy made a couple casts while I started to get my camera out to capture some of the evening light. Before I could even get it on, he hooked up. He looked at me and said “GRANDE” with a look in this eye that I knew meant BIG FISH. The fish stayed deep and tugged hard. After fifteen minutes or so, it finally showed and we could see it was a huge Asuel. Andy landed it and I insisted again on a photo. The fish weighed in at over 15 pounds. I also insisted that Andy make a few more casts in that same direc-tion, just so I could have a cast on film to go with the fish fight. On the second cast Andy hooked up again. It was another huge fish. It ran straight at the boat and under us. Andy stuck his rod in the water and led it around the bow while I

foraged for food. I watched them until they got out of the water at the end of the lagoon and headed off into the Jungle. I ran back to the boat to tell Andy about it. As I came out through the brush to the beach where he and Pepe were, so did the Otters. They all piled out in front of us then stopped. Andy started bark-ing at them and they responded with short little snuffs and barks. For a minute there it looked like they had a good little conversation going on. I looked at Andy and said, “I didn’t know you spoke Otter?” He looked at me and replied, “There’s a lot of things about me you don’t know.” We just left it at that.

Later that day, we were sitting in a quiet lagoon when we heard a dull grown and some snarling coming out of the forest. We looked at each other and said “Jag-uar!” I kept my eyes peeled the rest of the trip, but that was our only encounter with the elusive cat.

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The next day found me fishing with Bo Nelson. Bo is an IGFA world record holder and was on the trip to try and break the world record for a Jacunda on 4 lb test. His other goal was to catch a bass over ten pounds as part of an ‘over ten’ peacock bass club thing. Bo is an intense angler and always looking for some excite-ment. The highlight of our day was when a large Cayman came sneak-ing out of the forest while we were wading in some shallow water, fish-ing to a school of Jacunda with a 6 wt. Bo caught some other small fish and chucked it over to the Cay-man. The Giant lizard chased the small fish up to Bo’s feet and then grabbed it. It took off into deep water with Bo’s catch in its mouth. Bo turned him on a 6 wt and fought him back into shallow water. The Cayman stopped and looked at him for a moment, then made another run. Bo managed to turn him again and fought him back over. At that point it stopped again and looked like it was sizing Bo up for a fight. I came over to get a closer shot. The Cayman decided that it probably

rolled camera. After another long hard fight, Andy landed another fish of almost the same dimensions. At first, we thought it was the same fish. The only reason we could tell it was a different fish, was because there was no hook mark where the other was hooked. On that note, we called it a night.

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them. It was the kind of sight that no doubt spawned those stories of fish devouring people alive. I ac-cidentally threw my fly too close to the school and it came back just a bare hook with a bit of thread left on the front. One chomp and they can incise a fly in half. Evan hooked one and we took a photo. They are pretty nasty little dudes. That afternoon I learned one key thing about Pea-

couldn’t take both of us, so it was time to retreat. It dropped the man-gled fish and disappeared into the depth from which it came. It was quite a rush.

I spent day five with Evan again. Evan is another one of those guys who is just constant entertainment. The guy is a nonstop plethora of one-liners. He constantly recites lines from movies and songs and all kinds of random silliness. When he’s in a really good mood, he sings at the top of his lungs. Evan had fallen a bit sick toward the start of the week so by day five he was feeling better and ready to dam-age some fish populations. In the middle of the day, our guide Decko pulled us up into a huge, long, slow deep pool in the river. The water in the cen-ter of the river was boiling with piranha for over 50 yards. As we drifted over the school, I looked down and could see the sil-very sheen of piranha for as deep as I could see. The school was huge; there must have been thousands of 33

Photo by Mikey Wier

right away that it was a big fish. The biggest of the trip so far for me. After a long hard fight, we ended up landing a fatty big Packa. He was over 15 and had a mouth like a bucket. His colors were super vivid and very bright. I couldn’t stop thinking of the rest of the fish I had just seen. I motioned to Deco to make another pass. He motored the boat back up and we went through the same section again. Evan and I started casting and sure enough the pack came rushing out again. Another huge fish grabbed my fly and the fight was on. After another nice hard fight, I landed a fish that was even bigger than the first. She had a belly that looked like she had swallowed a football. What can you do at that point, but make another pass. On the third go around I was praying that Evan would hook one of these monsters. A group of fish came rushing out and one grabbed at my fly. I missed him, but then heard Evan say, “Fish On”. Deco pulled us out into the deeper water and Evan played out his big bass. He landed a nice Packa and I took some photos. Just as he released it,

cock Bass fishing; where there are piranha, there are BIG Bass.

That afternoon changed my fishing experience forever. After the first pira-nha stripped my fly, I was hesitant to cast again, fearing to lose the last of my dwindling supply of flies that worked. I was down to a few bugs that Idlye Wilde signature tier Jay Paulson from Seattle had tied me. I tied on the one that looked like a baby bass. As we reached the end of the long deep pool, we could start to see ripples in the sand that had formed big depressions as the cur-rent tailed out over the years. To the left side of the river there was a huge tree that had fallen in the water just into the deepest part of one of the depressions. Decko, our guide motioned us to start casting. Evan and I both threw our flies in that area and out came a school of huge fish. It looked like 5 or so rushed my fly. I hooked up and Evan threw right behind me hoping to pick off one of the other fish. I could feel 34

forehead. It was the greatest bass I could have ever imagined catching. That was one of the best afternoons of fly-fishing I have ever had. The last fishing day for the trip, found Andy and I in the boat to-gether again. We only fished for half the day, then pulled up onto a nice beach to do a follow up interview to the trip. Andy had some business to handle with the camp manager, so we retired to camp a bit early. With some time to kill, I talked Bebe into interpreting an interview with our guide Deco, who only spoke Portu-guese. After a few questions, with short, uninteresting answers, I asked him what he was most afraid of in the Amazon Jungle. I thought it would be the giant snakes, or Jaguar or a poison spider or something.

we drifted over one of the sand bars at the end of the pool. I looked over into the water and there was another huge bass. I thought it might have been one of the ones we had just released, but I decided to throw a fly at it just in case. Sure enough, it rushed up and slammed it with a quick and intent thrust, like a hawk swooping off a telephone pole onto a mouse. It was yet another huge Packa. That made three over 14 pounds for me in just over a half an hour. We made another run up a bit and drifted through the log pile spot again. This time no fish came out, so we figured we had worn out our welcome.

Deco motored us up to the head of the run again and we drifted back past the piranha school. This time I directed my cast toward a very deep bank on the opposite shore. In a non-descript area, I got a huge pull. I knew right away it was an-other huge bass. He tugged and fought and I pulled and cursed and we danced. This time it was a huge Asuel. It was obviously a male and had a huge horn like bump on his

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About Mikey WierMikey Wier is in his 8th season guiding for the Tahoe Fly Fishing Outfitters. He grew up in this area, and has been fishing the same waters he guides on from the time he was 7. Mikey makes some of the best fly fishing vid-eos on the market.

You can see his videos at: www.burlproductions.com

His answer surprised me when he said he was most afraid of a type of giant Amazon Cat Fish.

When he was a small boy, he had seen one of the other village kids grabbed and swallowed whole by one of these giant fish. Apparently it happens with some frequency down here. It makes a little guy like me think twice about that evening swim.

The whole journey home I kept trying to imagine the horror of being swal-lowed by a giant Cat Fish. Then my thoughts turned to the possibilities of catching one on a fly. I started won-dering how hard it would be to tie a baby human popper.

Mikey Wier

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The Art of Angling

Mulligan Creek

The Photography of Ken Baldwin

It’s a small creek, one of our favorites. Everyone knows about the large famous and crowded rivers of Alaska but these small ones usually go un-explored. In my opinion it’s the small ones that hold the character and intimacies of fly fishing. This one we call Mulligan Creek. Not an official name. In fact on the map it isn’t named. I guess the lodge owner came up with Mulligan (a do-over) from the game of golf. His line of thought was that this stream has so many trout that if you miss one you get a do-over.

- Ken Baldwin

Photo by Ken Baldwin

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Photo by Ken Balwin

River Rats42

River Rats43


"The gods do not subtract from the allotted span of men's lives the hours spent in fishing." Assyrian Tablet (2000 B.C.)

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Photos by Ken Baldwin

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Mulligan Creek, Pedro Bay, Alaska 2008Photos by Ken Baldwin

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Mulligan Creek, Pedro Bay, Alaska 2008Photos by Ken Baldwin

49Photo by Ken Baldwin

"I envy not him that eats better meat than I do, nor him that is richer or wears better clothes than I do. I envy him, and him only, that catches more fish than I do."

Izaak Walton

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About Ken BaldwinMy life started out on fishing and has come full circle. In between I've worked as Bartender, Actor, Salsa Dancer and a Director. But whereever I went and whatever I did, the pull of the water was always too strong to ignore. In 2006 I finally gave in and made my passion my career. Fishing is a funny thing. I remember my first fish, a cockeyed Goggle Eye that I caught when I was 7 years old. I kid you not, a Goggle Eye with a crooked eye. I asked my Dad what kind of fish this was and he said "a Goggle Eye", I thought my Dad was crazy. It didn't matter, this sickly fish sparked a fire that has consumed me since. Only one other fish in my life I remember as vividly, my first Largemouth Bass. I was 13 and caught this fish on a Black and Yellow Hula Popper. It weighed 4 pounds, the cut off weight in which a Largemouth becomes a "Respectable" Largemouth. I carried it like a medal as I walked into my father's Rod and Gun club. His friends would stop to admire it, ask me how I caught it and what I caught it on and then each reached into their pockets to slip me a dollar bill. Big money in those days. I was so proud of that fish! The great fisherman of the Rod and Gun Club asked me for information on matters of fishing, and then paid me to boot! This is why I photograph. I would trade every fish I have ever caught to have photo-graphed these two moments of my life. When I'm guiding in Alaska and I see a client hooked to a fish of his lifetime I don't reach for a net, I reach for my camera because I know to land the fish on film will land it forever.

Ken Baldwin Website: Dancefish.com


EducationGoing for Distanceby Al Kyte and Gary Moran

Why do some fly casters cast so far, and with so little effort?

As fly-casting instructors we wanted to answer those questions. You see, teachers like to have answers, and fly-casting teachers are no exception. Un-fortunately the “answers” we have, even the techniques that have worked before, are sometimes too narrow and dogmatic to help the next student. Pro-fessional teachers and athletic coaches try to improve their teaching by using anatomical and mechanical principles, called sport biomechanics, as the basis for what they teach.

Researchers in biomechanics have filmed or videotaped groups of skilled per-formers in a variety of sports, but we found little research on fly casting, so we decided to conduct our own study and combine the perspective of a fly-casting teacher with that of a biomechanics researcher. Here’s what we discovered.

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chanics of maximal force applica-tion. We wanted to identify what some of the most successful dis-tance casters in this sport do differ-ently from other skilled casters. Our sample group of 20 casters included tournament fly casters as well as highly regarded trout and steelhead anglers from northern California.We conducted the casting indoors to eliminate any disruption from wind or other elements and kept the casts within the space limitations by specific selection of the fly rod and

Design of the Study

Analyzing the videotaped perfor-mances of a group of casters, rather than a single caster, helped us iden-tify acceptable variations in cast-ing form as well as to verify which mechanical components are most important. For such comparisons to mean anything, each caster had to perform the identical casting task with the same rod and fly line.We decided to concentrate on cast-ing for distance to analyze the me-

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speed biomechanics equipment, we recorded the casts using two video camcorders and analyzed the data using a multifunction stop-action, frame-by-frame, and slow-motion playback-capable V.H.S. videocas-sette recorder.We gave each caster a 15-minute practice period with the task and equipment. After this practice pe-riod, each person made 14 casts, attempting to cast the fly as far as possible. We recorded the distance the fly landed from the caster for each trial. We gave a distance score to each caster, the average of that person’s successful casts.Nine of the 20 casters who cast the fly the greatest distance became the “elite” group. This group included world-class tournament casters Rene Gillibert and Tim Rajeff as well as renowned teacher/anglers Mel Krieger and Andre Puyans. The nine casters who achieved the short-est distance scores were designated as the “good” group. This group also included expert anglers, tourna-ment casters, and fly-casting teach-ers. Two casters, whose scores fell midway between these two groups,

line and by standardizing the length of line being false-cast prior to the final forward cast.We sought a “progressive, medium-action” fly rod and full-length fly line, representative of those com-monly used by anglers. We also needed a white fly rod for maximum contrast against a black background. Mel Krieger donated one he had used in his excellent video, “The Essence of Fly Casting.” This 9-foot graphite fly rod, designed for Fen-wick by Jim Green, was matched with a Scientific Anglers/3M Ultra2, weight-forward 7-weight floating fly line.Preliminary testing and videotap-ing revealed the need for markers on the casters’ joints (wrist, elbow, shoulder, hip, knee, and ankle), a black backdrop curtain, horizontal and vertical reference lines to facili-tate angle measurement, and a sys-tem for identifying subject and trial numbers within the filming area. We also developed a procedure for eval-uating casting loop size and other fly line characteristics that occurred beyond the filming area.Though lacking sophisticated, high-

ward cast, and may not contribute directly to distance, it does serve to straighten the line behind the rod tip. Any slack that remains in the line when the forward cast begins can interfere with the distance of that cast.Movement of the fly line: The elite casters straightened the backcast line more completely than the good casters and did so with no-ticeably smaller loops (Figure 1).

The variable that most affected this line flow was the way the casters stopped the rod at the end of the backcast. This is when the rod loses its bend and transfers energy to the line.

Backcast Stop

The elite group stopped the rod more abruptly, moving the butt an average of 16 degrees as compared to 26 degrees for the good group.

were removed from the analysis to ensure that the two comparison groups were distinctly different.

Findings

The elite group cast the fly an aver-age distance of 80 feet compared to 70.7 feet for the good group. The skills of these casters and the limita-tions placed on distance by the task and equipment notwithstanding, ten feet of distance in this study repre-sents a substantial difference.In the following discussion we have grouped the findings into three se-quential stages of the cast: the back-cast, the loading of the forward cast, and the unloading or stop of the forward cast.

Backcast

The casters in the study had to pick up and control approximately 50 feet of fly line in the air, make two false casts, and release line on the third forward cast. Every caster used line hauling techniques.Although the backcast occurs prior to any power application of the for-

Education - Going for Distance (cont’d)

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When you apply force to drive the line forward, energy is being stored in the increasing bend of the fly rod. This is commonly referred to as “loading” the rod. We found a number of variables that contribute to force application in this loading phase.

Maximum rod bend: We expected our more successful distance cast-ers to store more energy by forcing more bend into the rod. To examine this factor, we measured the extent to which each caster bent the rod tip back from the rod butt. Where we found the rod tip bent back from the butt the greatest amount, we applied the term “maximum rod bend.”

We found that the caster who cast the fly the farthest also bent the tip back the farthest, 152 degrees. The caster with the second best distance had the second greatest rod bend, of 149 degrees. The elite group aver-aged 144 degrees of maximum rod bend compared to 135.7 degrees for the good group (Figure 3).

Path of the rod tip: Casting in-

This “stop” is measured from the point of the rod’s maximum bend in the backcast to the point at which the rod first deflected downward (Figure 2).

Some of the “good” casters also moved the casting hand and rod butt lower during the stop. This ex-tra movement combined with the greater angle change of the rod butt allowed the rod tip to drop lower in back than was typical of the elite group. Dropping the rod tip low during the backcast put sag in the backcast line and decreased the like-lihood of achieving small, efficient loops.

Although we are familiar with this tendency among beginning casters, we found that it reappears in some experienced casters when they at-tempt long backcasts.

Forward Cast - Loading Phase63

move in a straight line during this loading phase. Yet from the side view we found that rather than in a straight line, the hand typically moved forward in a slightly down-ward curving path (Figure 5). There was some variation in this path, de-

pending on the throwing style of the caster. Regardless of this variation, the casting hand, elbow; and shoul-der of each elite caster interacted to produce the important straight path of the rod tip.

Angle of release: The “angle of release” is the number of degrees above horizontal that the fly line starts moving forward from the rod. This variable is critical in throwing events that many people consider similar to distance casting.

structors commonly teach that the rod tip should move along a straight path throughout the loading phase. This phenomenon is similar to “flat-tening the arc of the swing” in other stroking movements, such as the tennis forehand.

In this study all nine elite casters did move the rod tip in a straight path, achieving maximum rod bend just before the stop. Yet only two

of nine good casters achieved the timing necessary to maintain this straight path. The common error among these casters was to apply their maximum force too early in the stroke.

Casting instructors sometimes teach that the casting hand should also

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completely straightened during the unloading phase.

Mel Krieger introduced the concept of a “variable casting arc” to indi-cate the need to vary the size of the arc’s angle according to the amount of bend in the rod; the more bend, the wider the arc. The amount of bend depends on the stiffness of the fly rod, the amount of line being cast, and the amount of force being applied to the rod. The first two of these factors were made uniform in this study, requiring casters to use additional force to achieve the ad-ditional bend for a long cast. Thus we expected the elite group’s addi-tional rod bend to be accompanied by wider casting arcs than used by the good group.

We found that the elite casters did indeed move the rod through a wid-er range of motion than the good casters, averaging an arc of 119 de-grees (4 clock positions) as against 106 degrees (3 l/2 clock positions) for the good casters. Several of the best distance casters opened the casting arc even farther, to between

We found release angles anywhere from horizontal to 20 degrees above horizontal, but both the elite and good groups averaged a surpris-ingly low release angle of 6 degrees above horizontal. Several casters volunteered the information that the indoor conditions caused them to use lower release angles than nor-mal to achieve their longest casts.

Casting arc: The most important findings thus far were that the elite casters imparted more bend into the rod and did so with better timing. Yet, what did they do differently to achieve this additional bend? This question led us to examine other mechanics of the rod, such as the casting arc and stroke length.

The “casting arc” refers to the angle through which the rod butt rotates during the casting stroke. Teachers often express it in terms of positions on a clock face, such as an arc from 10 o’clock to 2 o’clock. For this study we started the forward cast-ing arc where the rod first showed a slight but measurable amount of bend and ended it where the rod first

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Stroke length among these cast-ers varied from less than three feet (31 inches) to almost six feet (68 inches). The elite casters moved the rod butt forward an average of 57.3 inches during the cast as compared to 51.5 inches by the good casters (Figure 7).

The somewhat slow action (lack of stiffness) of the study fly rod in-vited a longer stroke than would have occurred with a stiff, fast rod. Nevertheless, the more successful distance casters used longer casting strokes and wider casting arcs than did the other casters, and did so over the same amount of time. This ex-tra distance enabled the elite casters to apply additional force to the rod without losing the straight path of the rod tip.Stroke length, as such, may not be as important to casting distance as what the caster does to achieve that

125 and 132 degrees. They accom-plished this by letting the rod “drift’ down in back an additional 10 to 15 degrees after the stop of the back-cast (Figure 6).

This is similar to baseball batters who are moving the bat back even as they start shifting weight forward into the stride toward the pitcher. Some casting teachers emphasize an upward movement of the rod after the backcast but miss out on the ad-ditional range of motion available to a rod that is allowed to “drift” down a few degrees in back.

Stroke length: The stroke length is the distance the caster’s hand moves the rod butt toward the target as the rod moves through its arc. This was measured by using a horizontal ref-erence marker in the film view.

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Our elite casters made greater use of their body mass and musculature to load the rod than did our good cast-ers. Six of nine elite casters used a pronounced weight shift from the back foot to the front foot during the forward cast. Only one of the nine good casters used such movement. In addition, the elite group averaged 40 degrees of back-to-front body lean as compared to 30 degrees for the good group. Eight of the nine elite casters rotated the casting shoulder forward in applying force as compared to only four of nine good casters. In combination, these factors can contribute an impressive amount of bend to the rod (Figure 8).

Two of our elite casters used a squared stance, with the feet posi-tioned side by side.

Although this style offers little po-tential for trunk rotation and lower-body weight shift, these casters

stroke length. We wondered if our best distance casters applied force differently than the others to drive the rod butt forward. This question led us to shift our attention from the mechanics of the rod and line to the mechanics of the caster. Although teachers advocate various styles of casting with different stances and arm movements, there is a lack of systematic investigation on the body’s role in applying force to a long cast.

Force from the body: In other dis-tance throwing sports, the athlete generally starts with the throwing side of the body turned away from the target and then brings that side forward vigorously when apply-ing force. The whole body becomes involved in the force application. In this study, 16 of the 20 casters used such a “distance stance” by placing the casting side back. This open or dropped-back stance allows greater weight shift and body lean, more shoulder rotation, and a longer stroke than either the squared or closed stance.

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The most effective haulers pulled the line back for greater distance than the other casters primarily dur-ing the final, accelerated stages of loading. Thus they stopped the haul and released the line father back as well (figure 10).

Short hauls, which are better suited to the action of stiff, quick-recov-ering rods, were less effective here. Sometimes instructors neglect to teach students to vary the length of the haul to coincide with the timing demands of the fly rod being used.

The casting arm: For years fly-fishing authors have compared the arm motion of a distance fly cast to that of a ball throw, even though a long implement has been placed in the hand. In ball throws we typically use the muscles of the throwing arm and hand to accelerate and finish off the force application that started in the larger, more massive muscles of the legs and trunk.

leaned their upper bodies back and then bent forward explosively on the forward cast. They possessed the upper body and arm strength as well as the precise timing to make this style effective. As teachers, we sometimes need to remind ourselves that one set of mechanics doesn’t always work best for everyone (Fig-ure 9).

Hauling with the line hand: The non-casting hand and arm also con-tribute to rod bend when casters “haul” or pull on the line during the loading of the forward cast. This is the second of two hauls in the double-haul technique used by most distance casters. In this study eight of the nine elite casters had highly effective hauls during the forward cast as compared to only three of nine good casters.

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to achieve the greatest line speed, combined the components of both of these styles. They moved the elbow out to the side of the body during the backcast, which opened the way for inward rotation at the shoulder. Then they moved the elbow ahead of the shoulder during the forward cast, which enabled them to use a strong elbow extension.

The casting wrist: Many beginning casters are trained to keep the wrist firm when learning to load a fly rod, and we observe that a wrist-domi-nated stroke limits the casting po-tential of many successful anglers. Yet the experienced distance casters in this study did use an “educated” wrist action during the final accel-eration of the rod tip.

The anatomical term for the wrist action we used in the forward cast is adduction. This occurs when the little finger side of the hand moves close to the forearm as the thumb side moves farther away from it. The elite group averaged 45 degrees of wrist adduction during the for-ward cast as compared to 35 degrees

One component of a throw that many casting instructors emphasize is the positioning of the elbow for-ward of the shoulder and hand. This positioning offers the potential for strong elbow extension. Most of the casters in this study did position the elbow forward in this manner. Both the elite and good casters averaged 67 degrees of elbow extension dur-ing the loading of the forward cast.

We observed several variations in “throwing style,” but the most com-mon was one in which the elbow was brought out to the side of the body and remained there throughout the forward casting stroke. Some-times teachers are critical of this arm style because of its weaker el-bow action. Yet this style uses a dif-ferent component of throwing me-chanics, a forceful inward rotation of the arm at the shoulder joint. This style frequently evolves in anglers who habitually wade deep or fish from float tubes and need to keep the elbow up out of the water.

Some of the most impressive cast-ers in this study, those who seemed

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overlook the way a rod unloads at the end of the cast. Some teachers emphasize this moment with phras-es such as “accelerate to a stop” or “come to a forced stop.”

An abrupt stop of the hand and rod butt should direct the release of the stored energy out through the rod tip to the fly line. Theoretically any hand movement or change in the rod-butt angle during this stop phase represents a softening that al-lows some energy to escape down through the hand. This would result in less efficient use of the energy stored in the bent rod.

As with the backcast, we measured the stop in degrees of rod-butt angle change between the point of maximum rod bend and the point at which the rod first bent downward.

The most successful distance casters stopped the rod so abruptly that the butt moved barely one degree. This is very impressive when one con-siders that the rod tip was turning over so forcefully that some of the “good” group were unable to even

for the good group (Figure 12).

Some of this difference occurred as the elite casters opened up the wrist angle to let the rod drift downward in the back after the stop of the backcast. This movement not only widened the available casting arc but also placed the wrist in a posi-tion to contribute more movement and force to the cast.

Most of the casters in both groups saved the last 20 to 30 degrees of wrist action to quickly tilt the rod butt forward just before the stop of the cast. This wrist movement added to the bend of the rod tip as well as to its acceleration, and thus con-stituted the final component of the loading phase.

Forward Cast - Unloading Phase

Mel Krieger cautioned us not to 70


The elite casters in this study were able to store more energy in the bent rod than the good casters and were able to release that energy more efficiently to the fly line. The top distance caster bent the rod the most, stopped it the quickest, used the most body lean, had among the best-rated backcasts, had among the widest casting arcs, hauled line ef-fectively, kept the rod tip straight during acceleration, used weight shift and shoulder rotation to his advantage, and benefited from a late forceful use of elbow and wrist ac-tion. Of the many dimensions ana-lyzed, he had no discernible flaw. By contrast, we could see several ways in which each of the skilled casters in our good group could ben-efit from improved mechanics.

AL KYTE, Ed.D., a fly-fishing guide and author

hold the rod steady. As a group, the elite casters restricted rod-butt angle change to less than six degrees dur-ing the stop. It took the good group more than 11 degrees, or roughly twice the butt angle change, to stop the rod (Figure 13).

Summary and Cautions

Sometimes we teach casting based on what we think is happening to the rod, line, or caster. The value of analyzing a group of skilled cast-ers in a study such as this is that we can see what actually happens. This is particularly important when one is casting for distance, because the mechanics of a 75-foot cast require more force and complexity than those of a 25-foot cast.

“ The value of analyzing a group of skilled casters in a study such as this is that we can see what actually hap-pens”

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Have you ever been up in the mountains, late summer, fishing when the sky goes black and the thunder rumbles? You ever turned to look over your shoulder and judge how many more casts you might get in? Wondered about how well you and the rod might conduct a lightening strike? Or if the bolt struck the river, and you were in it, what would happen?

I watched the thunderheads up over the ridge, with thoughts like those running through my mind. The clouds, cumulonimbus, kept parallel, and never headed my way. I fished on, lost track of time, and the thunder sounded like dis-tant artillery. The problem wasn’t the thunder or rain. No, it was the lightning that screwed the fishing up.

I was up a long ways. I had waded and walked up a good four miles

from camp into the wild. See, it had been a wet winter, much like this one, and then a dry spring and now a hot summer. The alders were wilting a little and the water skin-nier than I remembered. Still, I was on Zen time, others might see it as

Big Sam, The Fire and the LogjamBy Michael DohertyIllustrations by Diane Michelin

Angling Life

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complete self-absorption. Walking what was, for me, a virgin stretch, and trying, hard as it was, to delay all gratification and to only fish the way down. I had mental notes of all the holes, approaches and whatever I could about possible flies to use.

But now I had made the sharp bend where the Canyon began, and there was no way I could have gone further.

That’s where I started, and I had fished my way about a hundred yards downstream, be-fore the clouds came. I knew these clouds meant trouble. You see the winds had picked up, changed. Several hours prior, they ran north south along the crest, but now a westerly blew, right down the river, messed with my cast, put knots in my leader. And it wasn’t long before the sky was dark again, but when I turned this time to look up to the ridge, it wasn’t to see clouds fat with rain, but a blurred ridge-line and the sun turning orange and red. Grey rolling clouds were tumbling down like the crumbling lip of a North Shore breaker, down towards the can-yon and valley below, hugging the ground. Lightning had set things on fire and the air was soon thick with the scent of

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out of the canyon, downstream, just like water only a foot higher. Indis-tinct creatures were moving, run-ning over the rocks of the river bed, no fear of me now. I should have been one of them. Fight or flight.

But there was no running from this, the winds were blowing hard, and the air was hot and acrid and it wasn’t easy to breathe. There was a hole right ahead, deep and inviting, it’s boundary a tangle of logs and overhanging bank. I made my way towards it, walking into the water. I figured it was maybe six-eight foot deep. Clutching my trusty, crappy Cortland (I’ll be damned if it was going to be ruined by this), I cursed myself at the stupidity of all of it and then wondered about how long I would last in the water, with a soak-ing wet fly vest, a wet cap and a t-shirt to breathe through.

It was only minutes before there were flames, weird vortexes that sang and shrieked and popped. Up above the high water mark, and sometimes they would spin down,

burning pine, small flecks of ash and birds moving east.

Those kids up at Thirty Mile some summers back came to mind, trapped in that firestorm under their space blankets, suffocating, burned, dead. I thought of those families back home when the Ash Wednes-day fires roared through Victoria in 1983, and that summer when the Eucalypts burned, surround-ing Canberra, my town, in a ring of fire, sirens wailing all night and the all-day, all-night gloaming full of smoke and no promise of letting up.

And now, half a world away up in the Cascades, no fire blanket, no Pendleton wool, but instead a lucky Ramones t-shirt, ball cap, nylon shorts and sandals over some neo-prene socks, a fishing vest, no cell phone, no radio. I was unprepared, and what was once ash floating like Martian snow now had an occa-sional cinder, red and angry com-ing down with it. The air was not good, the smoke stung my eyes, and snakes of it were making their way

Angling Life - Big Sam (cont’d)

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its last gas. I looked straight into the underwater mess of submerged pon-derosa, scrub pine and juniper that made the far wall of the hole; there seemed to be eyes looking back right at me and for a minute they spoke to me, and damn it if they weren’t angry and mean:

“yeah, we are all screwed now bud-dy, but you, you are really screwed. See you got lungs, and us trout here, we got gills. You, my friend, are screwed, and we are going to take pleasure in watching you die.”

The weird thought occurred to me, for just a second, if I made peace with these fish, they might devise a way to save me. And then the absurdity of it hit me right along with a kind of nagging feeling like a rat was chewing his way out of my lung. No, drowning was not peaceful, not when the alternative was burning. And no, when you’re in this circumstance no flood of memories runs through your mind. It’s more like “damn it, if only I had some air.”

right onto the water, about thirty yards upstream. A run of reeds was suddenly reduced, gases were com-busting all blue and green and or-ange. And that’s when I submerged.

Legend has it that Grandpa Boot said drowning was extremely peace-ful, the most peace he’d ever felt. Then again when the aircrew went down on a whitecapped Townsville Harbor and the Catalina broke apart and he struck his head hard, I won-der whether his recollections were colored by concussion, amnesia, benzene, airfuel. Maybe they were all drunk. He said the temperate harbor waters were so inviting, and there was no fear of death.

But for me, this was no peace, un-derwater you could hear weird sounds of trees cracking, the pop-ping of river rocks. The bright hues, if you opened your eyes, lit up the corners and jambs of the hole. And bubbling on the surface, as if in sec-onds the surface was boiling, and then just as soon gone, and then back, hissing like a propane lamp on

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saved me and, it would appear, this thing had the foresight to keep my Cortland as well.

My legs were dangling over the edge of the raft, and the rest of me lay like a prize fish or a cold-cocked bar-room brawler in the bottom of what appeared to be a Fred Meyer inflatable. Looking straight up there was a man of indeterminate age, he was about as calm as could be, sit-ting on a platform he’d lashed to the sides with some mismatched rope and duct tape. Blurry on account of the smoke, bearded, sorta wild look-ing, big and round, cheap screw-to-gether plastic paddles in either hand, dipping one in now and then to steer the craft, eyes on the horizon, down-stream.

“Welcome aboard, stranger. Name’s Big Sam, and this here’s my rig, Eloise”

He held out a fat hand and I took it, it was slippery, soft and cold, like a clump of wet dough.

Underwater, with the fire front mov-ing overhead, I didn’t last long. It was maybe thirty seconds or so be-fore I surfaced, but what I sucked in was worse, and burned like your first deep drag of a cigarette, and almost immediately I was up again, coughing and hacking and trying to get a breath in. This would be it then. I was back under, and things got blurry and I can’t account for all the time, but it seemed like a bigger pair of eyes was looking at me real close, studying me.

Oh for a set of gills. And for a pill to take away the pain and anxiety.

And then something fantastic and strange, a hand, shoved deep into the water grabbed me, and pulled me by a fistful of fly vest and Ra-mones logo. Pulled me onto the back of raft, and laughed and said something unintelligible and next thing I knew a mask on my face breathing sweet clean air or I don’t know what. It took me a while to get bearings, but something had


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could, but he didn’t care one bit if our trim was no good. The weird thing was Eloise only sagged under my weight.

“Fire’s ahead of itself. And us now.” The winds had died and there were still cinders but the raft repelled them, they singed or snuffed in the river or in the water Big Sam had pulled in with me at the base of the raft. They tiny coals made little hisses like a nest of garter snakes spooked by an eagle.

We moved through a landscape seared and unreal, smoking with spot fires and odd untouched areas devoid of damage, sword ferns, doug fir saplings, old rotten cotton-wood stumps, so different from the mature, wilted beauty I had moved through hours before. I took the mask off and mumbled “thanks” but the air still was no good for me, the larynx didn’t seem to work, and I took the mask and put it back on.

“Last you longer if you put a kink in it when you’re not breathing.”

“That leading edge’s a bitch innit? Saw you making your way up and figured the fire would come down and trap you. You’re one lucky mother.” He pointed back to the logjam hole, my refuge, once a mess of whitewashed logs a good three-four feet above water now almost flush with the waterline and break-ing up with the unyielding current. I only figured later that time must have passed, and that maybe I was dead for a while. No white tunnel, no coming into the light, no voices greeting me at the pearly gates, nope, just a cold marshmallow fist pulling me out.

There wasn’t much to say to all that. I traced the pipe from the mask back, it stuffed straight into one of the raft’s air chambers where it was held with yet more duct tape. That was about it in the raft. Me and him, paddles, the pipe, mask and the rod. My ass striking river rocks below sharpened my observations with increments of pain, proving a kind of awful keel for big Sam’s pool toy. I repositioned myself as best I

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knots to decipher. It was a bad knot that he drew tight with his crusty teeth, and yet when he picked up the rod and stepped from Eloise, he moved with an elegance unimagi-nable.

Big Sam was, after all, a pasty look-ing man with a third-world t-shirt (the message of which seemed ri-diculous then “It’s alright girls, don’t cry now, I’ll be right back”), train-conductor overalls somehow bleached the color of Teanaway Mud, and river-salvage flip-flops, different colors, rubber wishbones between his hairless toes all cracked from the sun.

He swung that rod like they do on the fishing shows and that hopper landed in an eddy full of smoking debris. He twitched it just so and sure enough, something big took it in a splash and the lines went tight and Big Sam gave a chuckle like Wilfred Brimley in front of a full bowl of steaming oats, and in a matter of minutes he pulled a fat forearm-long redside trout to his

I nodded my head, did as he said.“hold this a second” He passed me one of the paddles.“you mind if I try this?”He picked up the Cortland.

“MMM, I like this thing; it’s got a good balance to it.” Water dribbled out of the reel, and when he stripped line, the ratcheting sounded sick and the drum scraped its housing, and god forbid, there was too much line wound on the thing anyway and it pulled out all sloppy and bumpy, rigged for a lefty even though I wasn’t one. And if you looked close you could tell there was mildew on the backing, probably as it had never seen the light of the sun. Hell, it worked for me good enough like that, and I wasn’t ashamed.

He picked a crappy garish yellow hopper from the sheepskin on my vest like an uncle pulls a coin from thin air, snapped off my hare’s ear and hooked it on my hat brim, and in a manner more theatrical than practical tied on the fly like a kid with a rope board and a book of


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“See every ten years or so fires come down through that Canyon, they burn out all the overgrown scrub, and the big ones know they are screwed for a while. They know that for the next six months, may-be a year, that their water’s dirty. And in that time, they know the food is going to dry up some. And they know, instinctually, like you or me, that they ought to stock up on what’s good for them. So this here…”

He holds up the hopper.

“this here is what they come to think of as bar-b-q, and they see this as a feast…”

He gestured over the river, and sure enough there were all manner of bugs on the surface or just a little submerged in the water. And why I hadn’t noticed it before but every-where that should have held a fish had one sucking down what must have been a perverse smorgasbord of dead creatures who had the same idea as me- make it to the river or

submerged hand where he sent it on its way in a practiced flip.

“Betcha didn’t think this ole river held Redsides now did you.”He winked at me like a nut or a guru, I couldn’t decide.“Well my young friend, it turns out the smoke and the debris in the wa-ter will turn a trout some. You see that burning gas, that carbon mon-oxide, hits the water too, dissolves in it a little, and when those trout get in on it, suck it down some, there sides light up like some champion fish from the heart of the Crooked river... You been there? You ought to go there someday. Smith Rock’s some pretty country.”

I nodded my head a little. Who was this guy? He didn’t stay long at the hole, pushed us off and we made our way to the next spot, and sure enough he threw and another was on, a trophy fish, and just as soon as it was beside his swollen ankles (I could no longer see his toes) he let him go again.

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He tossed the coin like a kickoff ref and I caught it and put it in my vest. And when I turned again, he vanished downstream back into the smoke and mists still drifting down from the trees and smoldering ruins of my camp.

The truck was mercifully un-touched, a handwritten note under the wiper blades:

“saved your truck, couldn’t save your camp.----------County VFBG. Call us to report you’re safe ” They’d left a number and when I opened the truck up I found my cell, called and let them know I was OK. And then I drove out home. I never stopped at Mountain High. The roads and traffic were tough, there were delays and vehicles and tanker planes and all kinds of folks moving in to calm the fires and I was breath-ing poorly and pumped up enough that I didn’t need any coffee…

I thought about Big Sam a lot after that, but commitments and a young

you’re gonna die.

“And they’ll make their way down-stream to where the water’s good again. And they’ll wait a season or so to come back up, and that’s how they get to be old and fat and wise like me…”

Well anyway to make a long story short we floated that four miles and I got enough wind up to ask him some questions and tell some sto-ries and laugh at it all, and I came to know Big Sam some more and it wasn’t too long that we were float-ing a familiar stretch where I’d made camp.

“I believe this is where you left off.”“Name’s Boot.” I offered my hand.“I know it Boot.” He helped me out.“Hey Boot?”“What?” “Take this here dollar and go on up to Mountain High and buy yourself a cup of mud. Tell Maggie or Glenn or Al or one of their girls that Big Sam sent you and that he sends Eric his biggest hug.”


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I did just that. Twilight was coming up on the Cascade Crest as I pulled into the burger joint. I made my way in and a tired looking lady came up to take my order. Her nametag said Maggie, just like Big Sam said. I felt like a fool but I pulled the dollar coin from my pocket.

“I’d like a coffee, black, nothing fancy.”“Here you go hun.”

I laid the gold coin down.“This here’s from Big Sam, he said that you guys would know who he was.”

And then the lady’s jaw fell open and she got real quiet and pale and swallowed hard.

“I haven’t heard that name for a while. When did you see him?”“About two years ago. He pulled me out of the canyon with that fire. See I got stuck up there a ways and Big Sam fished me out. Saved my life.”

son and a bunch of other reasons took me away from ever getting back up there to thank him. I never told no-one about him though, I was somehow ashamed that I’d put my-self into a situation so finite. Two years later though I made my way back up into the canyon and fished the waters I had seen with Big Sam. I looked for him, even called out once or twice, but alls I heard was the sounds of the forest and the wa-ter.

Saplings were busting up strong out of the ground and the river was run-ning clear again. There were fish, but they were small and hungry and it was more the memories of the day several years prior that I ended up fighting. Then I saw a hopper fly down and screw up a landing right on a logjammed pool and damned if a fish of some consequence didn’t suck it right down. I searched for my own, rummaged through every pocket but failed to find the one Big Sam took. I did find his coin though, and made note to stop by Mountain High on the way home.

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ing the quiet stretch of river, they did that all the time, inner-tubes, come high summer, but they went too far and Eric got stuck in a log-jam. And the other one, Al, he had it all figured, and told Eric to climb up while he would run for help. Eric was real little, not the kind of kid you coulda left alone like that. Al he ran as hard as he could to get some help, but by the time we all got down to the jam we couldn’t see Eric.”

“That was the hardest half hour of my life.” She took her time now.“Anyways, Big Sam got wind of it, he always did. Kinda simple him-self really, he lived up in the hills in a shack and came down when he needed a sack of sugar or some flour or stuff like that. He loved his cheeseburgers. The ‘last of the wild men’ my Glenn called him. He came floating on down the river in that raft of his. Shouting out like a foghorn for Eric, even before we told him what was going on, sorta like he knew. He always had a soft spot for my boy. And as a mother

“Two years ago?”“Yep, bout then I reckon.”She looked real frightened, and I began to second guess myself, won-dering if the waters under the bridge here was bad, if I’d stirred up a hor-net’s nest I had no place stirring.

“Big Sam’s been dead for fifteen years.”I didn’t sip the coffee, but the acrid smell was wafting out of that tiny hole right in front of my nose, like a smelling salt. I brought it down slow.

“How’d you mean?”“Well my two boys, Al and Eric were floating ------River. And see Eric, there’s no good way of putting this, he’s special.”

She held my gaze long enough for me to figure he was retarded or sick or something like that.

“He doesn’t have words. Some folks call him simple, but he’s my Eric. Anyways Eric and Al were float-


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bunch of water and suck in a breath of air. Why my boy was blue and all, but he was living and breathing and in a matter of minutes he was pointing back at the mess of logs, tugging my sleeve and pulling me towards it, like there was something still there.”

“Well we tried all manner of ways of getting at Sam but come nightfall we had to leave. And my Eric didn’t want to go. I saw my boy squeeze out tears, and that’s the only time I ever seen him do that for anything other than doctor’s needles and a broken arm.”

“Well we all knew what was still there, but there wasn’t one of us willing to go under for him. See Big Sam had told us before, he didn’t know how to swim, and, this may sound cruel, and I’m going to burn in hell for admitting this, but there ain’t no-one that can rescue a fat man who can’t swim from beneath a logjam.”

She made the sign of the cross. And

you know a boy like Eric makes no friends to no-one but his kin and for that alone, for him treating him kindly, I loved Big Sam.”

Maggie began to tear up, pulled her-self together, wiped her nose on her sleeve.

“Seeing him gave us back some energy and we all got to shout-ing again. He asked Al where he last saw Eric and Al pointed to the logjam. And then I’ll be damned but Big Sam moved like a heron or something else. He was for a mo-ment graceful, and if you seen Big Sam you’d think by looking at him he was anything but. He slipped out of that raft and then disappeared. He was gone a good ten minutes or so, then out the back side of the jam Al saw something and shouted for us all.”

“There was Eric face down, float-ing. We all rushed in and pulled him out and started pushing on him and shouting him and slapping him and damnit if he didn’t just sputter up a

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pushed the coin back at me.

“You keep this. See every now and then there’s some stranger who comes in telling me they’ve seen Big Sam. And I believe them, and I know it’s his way of saying he forgives me and Glenn and all the rest of us for failing him. And don’t think I don’t wish him back every day I live and breathe. After all, that man saved my boy, and I never did him right…”

She got all quiet and I made my exit after squeezing her hand. I put that coin right back where it had sat all these years, in the top left pocket of my fly vest, where it sits to this day.

(for those of you familiar with Tom Waits you will recognize the back-bone here is “Big Joe and Phantom 309.” I’ve always loved that story and I apologize if I haven’t done it suffi-cient justice here.)


- Michael Doherty

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Illustrations by Diane Michelin 85

A friend asked me once what the quickest way to tell an expert fisherman from an amateur is. “Simple,” I replied. “An expert’s equipment will look the same or better than it did the day they bought it.” Fly rods are the best giveaway for how someone takes care of their gear. The coming of the Lifetime Guarantee has made a lot of fishermen careless about the way they treat their gear. Keeping your fly rod in the best condition possible will ensure that you don’t have a problem at the wrong time, like when that fish of a lifetime finally eats your fly. Below are tips to keep your fly rods in tip-top shape.

Universal Tips:• Don’tlayyourrodflatonthegroundoronthehingeofanopencardoor• Alwayswipedowntherodandhandleandthoroughlydrybeforestoringinarodsockandtube,especiallywhenusingtherodinsaltwater.Useanoldtoothbrushtoremovedirtfromtheguidesandreelseat.• Checktherodaftereverydayoffishingfornicksorotherdamagesuchaswearintheepoxyoverthreadwrapsontherod• Storeyourrodinit’stubeoraprotectedrodrackwhenit’snotinuse• Don’tuseyourrodtogetasnaggedflyoutofanyobstruction• Neverputyourrodawaywetordampandmakesurethecorkhandleisdrywhenyouputtherodinit’ssockandsealedtube• Cleandirtycorkwithsandpaper(findthefinestgrainsandpaperthatyoucan)thenwipewithrubbingalcohol(analternativetoalcoholistowetawashclothwithwarmwaterandsoapupthewashclothwitharegularbarofsoap,thenrinseandairdrythoroughly)

Proper Rod Careby Matt Paluch

TIPS

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Graphite Rod Tips:• Whenassemblingtherodstartwiththeguidesoffsetby45degreesandpushpiecestogethertwistingattheendsotheguidesalign• Whendisassemblingtherod,pullthepiecesstraightapartwithouttwisting.Userubberjaropenersifyoucan’tgetagoodgrip(neverpullbytheguides).Ifitisreallystuckonthere,enlistthehelpofafriend.• Occasionallyitisgoodtopullanylonhosethroughtherodguidestoseeiftheyaresmooth.Ifthereisatearorthenylonsticks,thereisanickinoneoftheguidesthatwillneedtobefixed.Nickscancutorscratchline• ApplyasmallamountofparaffinwaxorOrvis’Ferrulewaxtothemaleferruleswhenyouseeexposedrodblank(don’toverdoit)

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Bamboo Rod Tips:• Ferrulesgotogetherandcomeapartstraight.Donotexertanyside-waysortwistingpressure.Donotuseguidesasaleveragepointfortakingrodsapart.Whenputtingtherodtogether,keephandsclosetogether,whentakingtherodapart,keephandsfarapart• KeepferrulescleanbyusingalcoholandaQ-tip.Makesuremaleandfemaleferrulesarecleanbeforeassembly.Donotuseanylubricantontheferrules.ItiswisetousetheQ-tiponthefemalewiththeopenendfacingtheground.Thatwayyouwillkeepthealcoholoffofthevarnish.• Ifyouwanttoputheavypressureonafish,lowertherodto45de-greesorso.Donotexceed90degreeswhileplayingorlandingafish.A“J”or“U”bendinthetipcancauseproblemswiththerod.• Donotoverloadtherodbyputtingtoomuchlead,largeindicators,orlargefliesontheleader.Anythingontheleaderwhichcausesthecasttofeellikeapendulumistoomuch.• Itiswisetotakedownyourrodwheneveryouleavetheriver,evenifitisonlyforadrivetodifferentfishingspot.Thisincludestakingtheroddownafteradayoffishing.Whenfishingitmakessensetoassembletherodasthelastthingyoudobeforeyougoouttotheriveranddisassembletherodasthefirstthingyoudowhenyouleavetheriver.Iftheferrulesseemtobejammed,tryusingrubbergloves,jargrippads,orsomeothernon-slipgloveorpad.Ifthatfails,youcanenlistyourfishingpartnertouse4handsontherod,alternatinghandsoneithersideoftheferrule.Manybamboorodswillhave2tips,soyoucanrotatetipsfordifferentdays.• Storetherodinacool,dryplace.Temperatureandmoistureextremesshouldbeavoided;donotleavetherodinahottrunkorwherethesuncanbeatdownontherodortherodtube.Whenfishinginverycoldcon-ditions,donotleavetherodassembledovernight.• Inspectthevarnishregularly.Ifwatergetsundertheshinyprotec-tivevarnish,thebamboomayrotortheindividualstripsofcanemaycomeapart.

TIPS - Proper Rod Care (cont’d)

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Use these methods to keep your rod in good working order so the next time you come around that river bend just in time to see the big shadow of a trophy fish, you can relax and know that your rod is up to the challenge. For a more in-depth guide to taking care of your tackle, check out Ted Leeson’s Orvis Guide to Tackle Care and Repair (Lyons Press).Thank you to the following for helping me assemble these tips:

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snagged sinkers and hooks off pier pilings, clumps of kelp, or from be-tween rocks. He would present his cache to his father who nodded an affectionate approval at his worth-less “gear”.

His first tackle box was a cigar box. Those boxes were all over in those days. The preferred model was the “Cubano Long”. Its contents would rise like a tide and recede just as quickly after an outing.

He loved to bait fish back then. Bits of bait fish like smelt, shiners, and pile worms cast across small shoals, an inlet, an effluent discharge, or tidal confluences rewarded him with redtail perch, sharks, stingrays, but never, ever, the rare (to him) elusive

about the bay, San Francisco Bay. This is how it had always been.

His earliest remembrances were watching others fish. He watched his father fish, an uncle fish, fam-ily friends fish. There was no toy tackle back then. The child sized Snoopy rod and reel deal of today had not yet come into being, and for that matter, neither had Snoopy.

And so it was that he watched, and watched others until he could mus-ter up enough muscle to cast a line into great depths of San Francisco Bay, approximately seven feet from the shoreline.

His first angling accouterments were acquired at low water, picking

Angling Life - A Fifty Fish Day (cont’d from page 92)

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striped bass. “That fish will come to you later on in life” his father would add. And just as his father said, they did.

There was no easy explanation for what happened next. He placed a pen in hand, and the pad that was used for groceries before him, and he began to write to no one in par-ticular:

“I wish to place on record that a day filled with a fifty fish catch is of no concern to me, a mere matter. Al-low me to angle for one large one, anywhere. The hook set, the strug-gle, or its landing would be of little consequence. The worth, and the weight of that fish would be mea-sured in the warmth of my winter dreams.”

When he finished he looked up and out the window. The snowfall had swerved to falling water-rain. He, of course, was safe and warm in-side, and feeling like Faulkner.

- by Art Dolosso

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be a book in him. That thought passed quickly though. It would be impossible for him to write a forlorn ode to an unlived life, a sad love song, or despair over aging. He was here at a good time, and having a good time while he was here. And with any luck at all, a few more fish would follow. It would be a while though, the blacks, browns and greys of winter would need to cha-meleon green.

In his mind, all the great mental souvenirs of his life and times were

The big river valley was white. He was sitting, while watching a light skein of snow fall outside his kitchen window. He liked looking out over this landscape, much like someone staring at a fire afterglow going out of control. While he watched, he wondered.

He felt that if it were possible to see deep inside his heart, there was truly no sad part.

At one time he thought, as some folks sometimes do, that there may

Angling Life

A Fifty Fish Day by Art Dolosso

Photo by Francesca D’Amore92

continued on page 90

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