tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16994129338775903802024-02-07T06:21:35.668-08:00Bows and BrownsJoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14930840753825326104noreply@blogger.comBlogger104125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1699412933877590380.post-49739662556787046162015-02-17T12:46:00.000-08:002015-02-17T12:48:16.352-08:00Keyed Off<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from Colorado Springs</td></tr>
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Wednesday night the stars were on fire and our feet were numb. The elevation was 7,995 feet, so our heads hovered just above 8,000 feet shivering in the Colorado February darkness. We were stranded and the temperature kept dropping. Our fishing had abruptly ended hours earlier; our minds quickly worked to devise a plan that avoided the four of us sleeping in a Rocky Mountain canyon in the dead of winter. <br />
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Lake George lies at the mouth of the canyon, and the town has dotted the map of Colorado since 1891. If you have ever seen the opening scene of Disney's <i>Frozen,</i> then you could picture men harvesting ice blocks hewn from the frozen Lake George in the winter. Lake George was created to supply ice for the railroad and Colorado Springs area. The Sunday before our Wednesday night shiver-fest, I had fished in the same area, but the temperature was mild and the fishing was medium. Today, our guides jammed with ice accumulation and we couldn't find the keys to unlock the tailwater puzzle of the South Platte in Eleven Mile Canyon. Oh yeah, we couldn't find the keys to the rental suburban either. As daylight began to fade behind the canyon walls, we were keyless and without cell signal; the slow fishing took a back seat to the reality that we needed extraction from the canyon.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eleven Mile Canyon</td></tr>
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On Sunday, the parking lot was full, the weather was balmy, and the river was crowed. Despite the pressure, a patient-dead-drifted-nymph rig would regularly ply a rainbow from the gin clear shallow waters of the Platte. On Sunday, we we slid in the water with 6x tippet and an array of size 22 midges and beatis emergers. Black beauties, purple juju bees, olive sparkle wing rs2's, and some tiny fbpt's made it into the rotation, and all produced at least one fish. On Sunday, the best setup was drifting any number or combo of tiny flies behind a San Juan worm. The fishing was never hot, but I never went an hour without landing a rainbow.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A run that produced fish Sunday <i>and</i> Wednesday</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cookie cutter S. Platte bow</td></tr>
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Three days later, on Wednesday, everything was different aside from the clear water, hundreds of visible fish, and the massive dam that dominates the upstream landscape when you reach the end of Eleven Mile Canyon Road. On Wednesday, a fresh blanket of snow covered the landscape as we drove through the deep scar created by time, gravity, and water towards the dirt lot at the end of the road. My excitement was palpable as we cut the first tracks into an empty parking lot below the same ominous dam that held back the straining force of Eleven Mile Reservoir. On Wednesday, we were past the cold front with colder temperatures; a classic recipe for sucky fishing. Low fishing pressure overpowers barometric pressure, I thought. I hoped. (The parking lot was empty after all.) But after staring at hoards of fish happily ignoring our presentations, my hope dwindled. We couldn't find the keys to unlock the river riddle that day. I fooled a few, landed two, and lost a brute, but the fishing was down right slow.</div>
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The excitement picked up however as the day closed. Tom started asking me, EJ, and Matt if we had the keys to the suburban about 45 minutes before dusk. I had just switched from a white football indicator to a orange thing-a-ma-bobber so I could actually see my indicator in the quickly fleeting light of the gorge. When I left the river to go look for the keys, I was certain I would be back in the water to get a few more drifts, and maybe one more fish before I had to call it quits on my only fishing trip in 8 months. 8 months. That surpassed my previous fly fishing dry spell of 2 months in the past 18 years. We really don't know what happened to the keys. We scanned the clear waters of the South Platte. We retraced the foot prints and packed snow trails we made over the afternoon's fishing. We turned waders, the suburban, and bags inside-out in search of the keys to be denied around every twist and turn to turn up empty-handed on a day we we often empty-netted. </div>
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Behind a myriad of chain link, barbed wire, and a hatch of 'no trespassing' signs, a slice of civilization held hope for us on the opposite side of the river. After wading across the river several times, watching my waders and wading boots freeze and unfreeze, and busting some Entrapment-inspired Katherine Zeta moves through fence and wire, Todd and Caroline were home. Todd is the caretaker of the dam, and he and his wife Caroline let us in their house and kindly allowed us to use their phone. It was Todd's birthday. We ruined his evening I'm sure. I would imagine we weren't the first idiots to knock on that door, stranded in the canyon. After calls to Enterprise, Rodney the Rescuer, and a tow company, Todd kindly drove back out the nine miles of gravel round that snakes along the banks of the river in the grand and beautiful ditch that is Eleven Mile Canyon. He dropped us off in Lake George after conversations of Matt's <i>Family Feud</i> fame, the many mountain lions that Todd encounters in the canyon, and about a millions apologies from his keyless passengers. On the way out we passed the tow truck that Tom had arranged to lug the suburban back to the Springs. As we pulled our frozen gear from the back of Todd's truck in the frigid rocky mountain cold we laughed, we cussed, and we shivered until Rodney and Chad plucked us of the side of the desolate, dark highway. Chad and Rodney had accompanied me earlier on Sunday, and had the distinct privilege of performing the extraction on Wednesday since they were familiar with the canyon and the river. </div>
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We still don't know what happened to the keys (I mean, we know Tom unknowingly dropped them in the snow somewhere, but for Tom's sake, we've let him run with the theory that a passing drifter stole the keys and nothing else form the suburban that was parked 50 feet behind us). The day will be etched in my memory as the day when both the keys to fishing and the keys to the car eluded us, leaving us keyed off, cold, nervous, and slap-happy. I'd never been so stoked to cuddle up next to frozen waders and wading boots in the third row of a cramped Mitsubishi Outlander car, leaving the celestial brilliance of the Colorado night sky to burn at our backs as we faded into the noise and light pollution of the city. </div>
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Soon, if not already, the buzz and blur of civilized life will leave us longing to escape to the natural places, where solace, beauty, and danger more acutely connect us to the One who created our wild souls and the ever fading wilderness. The convenience and abundance of resources and shelter can rob us of the very awareness of our mortality, leaving us to think we are gods that control our future with dollar bills, furnaces, pre-packaged food, and experience. In the wild, we are left to wrestle with our own frailty and we are reminded of our need for a Great Provider who will lead us to a redeemed creation, where the South Platte runs free, and in my mind, fat trout rise to drifting green drakes all the day long. I'm not sure that there will be fly rods in eternity, but I have a hunch that Jesus is a fly fisherman who builds his own bamboo rods, ties his own flies, and gracefully condescends to share his favorite run with me...and you, and any other willing to follow him into the reality of wild freedom. He holds the keys.</div>
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"<i>A thief is only there to steal and kill and destroy. I came so they can have real and eternal life, more and better life than they ever dreamed of.</i>" -Jesus Christ, The Gospel according to John</div>
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Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14930840753825326104noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1699412933877590380.post-14410093343946041252014-06-05T10:59:00.000-07:002014-06-06T19:58:09.313-07:00Tennessee Tail<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brandon's rod loaded</td></tr>
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Bojangles biscuits and sulfur mayflies were on the menu Wednesday morning. I was a sucker and easily fell prey to the saturated goodness of the cajun filet like a newly stocked trout devours power bait. Unfortunately, much like that newbie trout, my eating habits will likely lead to my demise. The Watauga trout didn't throw themselves at my sulphur imitations with the same abandon that I attacked my biscuit, but with 40 to 50 fish in the boat after a days float, I left the river smiling, tired, and still a little gassy from Mr. Bojangle's.<br />
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My buddy Brandon and I decided to throw down some cheese for a farewell tailwater guide trip before my departure to Okie country. Brandon is a crazy Cajun friend that loves to fish too. My guide selection was a fairly easy one for me. Ollie Smith helped me learn the Boone area streams when I was fly shop lurker in college at Appalachian State. He also taught me and two other buddies to ty flies in his shop on Wednesday nights during those brutal High Country winter nights. Ollie has been on several TV shows and has been recognized as 1 of 5 "legendary guides" in North Carolina. He knows how to fish, knows hospitality, service, enthusiasm, and is just stinkin' fun to be around. He's more colorful than a bin of thing-a-ma-bobbers, and listening to him and my coon ass Cajun friend shoot the breeze was almost reward in and of itself. I also knew Ollie's lunch spread is killer (tasty killer, not just literally killer like Bojangle's) from a <a href="http://bowsandbrowns.blogspot.com/2013/09/south-holston-river-float.html" target="_blank">previous group trip</a> he lead on the South Holston last fall. Apple slices dipped in Heath laden "bossy sauce" can raise your spirits like Lee Greenwood on the Waffle House juke box. I'm proud to be an American, and God bless the bossy sauce.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://www.blueridgeanglers.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="http://blueridgeanglers.com/" border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOGJgvfsG4I0D95nZqt8Q7A_ZHFMqz8suIAK_vLbsXmALIMmWkHIwjyEolqtNcQ4ZBso3SVpFN4RtcmOK7y95zGs4loIHOtqPLA2-_hlT96CpLfhhxAmEY8YHHRvENgXCs6Shvs1xRLCE/s400/blogger-image-1553235279.jpg" width="376" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.blueridgeanglers.com/" target="_blank">Guide Ollie Smith</a></td></tr>
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Less than 45 minutes into our float, we had landed several fish and I had hooked into a 20 inch rainbow that came unbuttoned after some fierce head shaking. Ollie knows the river, and he flat out put us on fish. It was the best dry fly fishing day I have had in years. The sulphurs sporadically came off all day, and at times we were casting to rising fish and regularly getting eats with a sulphur dry/emerger combo. We even go a few terrestrial takes. Brandon had a slab of butter brown swipe at his beetle early in the day, but wasn't able to hook up. Probably cause he was daydreaming about crawfish gumbo or nature. When the fishing would slow, Ollie would switch our rigs out and we would start prospecting for fish in a different fashion, often on pieces of water I never would have concentrated on if left to figure the river out myself. Soon, these Ollie described "unsexy" pieces of water would be putting bends in our rods and fish in the net.We never had a long spell with out fish.<br />
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My favorite fish of the day was a in a channel before the river narrowed. Ollie anchored the boat and gave us a little pep talk about the spooky fish we were about to present our flies to. He turned the boat side ways, and we then drifted, fly first, into the run these big, spooky fish inhabited. Moments later, I was into my best fight of the day. I fat football made my reel sing and made us work to land it. Ollie instructed us to stomp the boat floor when the fish would make a run under the boat to spook him back out. We had to do the river stomp three times before finally landing the rainbow. Those cold waters make for some HEALTHY fish.<br />
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I left the water that day a better fisherman because of Ollie's guide work. I learned a lot of technique that will carry over into my future fishing. If you are wanting to float the Tennessee tailwaters, give Ollie Smith a call at his guide service, <a href="http://www.blueridgeanglers.com/" target="_blank">Blue Ridge Anglers</a>. If your lucky, maybe you can bring along a Cajun to sweeten the day. Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14930840753825326104noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1699412933877590380.post-33163690116834267992014-05-29T06:24:00.003-07:002014-05-29T09:32:20.727-07:00Cradle to Grave<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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In the final decade of the 1800's, George Vanderbilt hired Carl Schenck to restore the over logged predecessor of todays Pisgah National Forrest in Western North Carolina. At the turn of the century my great-great-grandmother rode a buck-board wagon along the banks of the Davidson River and Looking Glass Creek with Carl Schenck to a cabin that's still standing at the site of America's first school of forestry. Schenck wrote that my great-great-grandmother made dry biscuits. My great-grandmother vehemently denied this dry biscuit accusation, and defended her mother's baking till the end of her life. I love my family, but sadly, we make dry biscuits. There are stories, memories, and legends that surround the forest that envelopes that old cabin, and I am forever connected to the land there.<br />
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A boggy, rhododendron choked, flat piece of land called the Pink Beds sits at high elevation surrounded by some of the highest peaks on the East side of the Mississippi. This area lies adjacent to the old forestry school which is now dubbed the Cradle of Forestry. It's here where one can find the beaver pond laden head waters of the South Mills River. From these ponds, the river meanders and falls for over 13 miles through a section of roadless Pisgah Forest. It's one of the longest remote sections of sizable stream in all of Western North Carolina. My son is named Mills after this river that my ancestors lived on, and a loyalist named William Mills was one of the first land owning white men to settle in the near by area. When William Mills settled on stolen Cherokee land, brook trout likely filled the Mills River. Today, it's the wild bows and browns that beckon me to the banks of the South Mills, and my last trip for the foreseeable future was a fitting one.<br />
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My family and I are moving to Oklahoma this summer, you know, the trout Mecca of the Northern Hemisphere. Though I know we will be back to visit, I doubt I'll have time to trek up to the Pink Beds and hike into to the remote haunts of the Mills. When my wife signed up for an eighteen mile trail run, the Cradle to Grave 30K, that started in the Cradle of Forestry, I quickly made plans to be her cheerleader. I would be a cheerleader in wet waders with a graphite stick and a ten foot leader, but I would cheer her on, nonetheless. The Saturday of her race I parked at the gauging station on the upper South Mills that doubled as nutrition station in her trail race. I waited for my fit wife, Blair, to tear through this section of the course so I could shout affirmation her way, as she set out to accomplish something all together inspiring. When she passed and faded into the forest away from the river, I pointed my rod tip to the trail, left the road, and made haste downstream for the Otter Hole.<br />
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The Otter Hole has been captured in the HD video of my mind for nearly thirty years. When I was eleven years old, my father took me on my first back packing trip. We parked in the same gauging station gravel lot that I find my self parked in decades later. Lugging our fly rod laden packs, we began our hike as dusk drew near. I had heard about the Otter Hole, and as we stopped to observe it a short fifteen minutes down the trail, the water was boiling with rises. Simply boiling. My eleven year old pleas to unsheathe our fly rods for a moments fishing were turned away by the three adults in our crew due to the waning light and many miles left to hike. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6o0rqAtT1Ay41LL8cZL3Lq-_U5Id_ZOnxTd3JCPO6g-Jb2oHUUdI7ozAUyNWdXYiQsm0R0xrhib5g_s77pJvziO78RpSbmIHvDJ03JR4bV9UYSPNIH3PINdoDmjv0EDjLBUQHqCrXHLY/s1600/josh+childhood+fly+fishing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6o0rqAtT1Ay41LL8cZL3Lq-_U5Id_ZOnxTd3JCPO6g-Jb2oHUUdI7ozAUyNWdXYiQsm0R0xrhib5g_s77pJvziO78RpSbmIHvDJ03JR4bV9UYSPNIH3PINdoDmjv0EDjLBUQHqCrXHLY/s1600/josh+childhood+fly+fishing.jpg" height="438" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My tween self on the South Mills near Wolf Ford circa 1988</td></tr>
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My fishing excursions on the South Mills have never lived up to the potential evidenced in the countless trout I saw rising on that April evening in the late 80's. I have caught many fish on the Mills, but I've never had a high numbers day or a trophy fish to hand. The river is both beautiful and baffling to those who fish it. Still, the mystery of what those cold, slightly tannic colored waters hold keep me curiously optimistic.<br />
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On my wife's race day, I hike in and enter the steam just below the tail-out of the Otter Hole. Looking upstream, the river takes a ninety degree turn to the right, but contrary to most bends, the strongest current hugs the inside bank. A massive nearly motionless eddy forms across the majority of space the river swallows, and stretches nearly four times the normal width of stream on the outside of the bend. I don't know how to fish it. Would there be fish over in the seemingly stagnant spans of water? How could I approach the slick with out sending waves across the surface, putting down every fish between the tangled flora lined river banks. My mind runs replays of the expanding concentric circles that manifested all over the waters surface as trout after trout swallowed mayflies before my fish thirsty eleven year old eyes years ago in this very spot. This morning the surface remains unbroken, so I concentrate on the seam of the steady moving current inside the bend, fishing two flies beneath an indicator.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtv_ho_A5G-hSgh8s2DymucoDi9PDLk3ZeW04mwYeX2tqbYpynvoXvRXw268UinR_fFshbfXd1xiz8VMfxPs98YRudShW7AGcq9-EdFm-p2cK_LaTBeDCuhsILHEmRCXsIX4Te-cCogUE/s640/blogger-image-1287403054.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtv_ho_A5G-hSgh8s2DymucoDi9PDLk3ZeW04mwYeX2tqbYpynvoXvRXw268UinR_fFshbfXd1xiz8VMfxPs98YRudShW7AGcq9-EdFm-p2cK_LaTBeDCuhsILHEmRCXsIX4Te-cCogUE/s640/blogger-image-1287403054.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Otter Hole</td></tr>
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Neither I or my father really knew what a nymph was thirty years ago, much less how to fish one. Our fly repertoire consisted of an elk hair caddis, or a adams, or an elk hair caddis. When those didn't produce, we would try an elk hair caddis. I pluck two small bows out of the run, then my line tightens firmly on my next hook set. I smile and chuckle out loud. This is why I've come to the Mills River. The fish I land is not a river monster, only a 12 inch rainbow. However, a twelve inch wild rainbow is a larger than average wild trout in the North Carolina mountains, and it gives me hope that a fourteen inch, eighteen inch, or even twenty plus inch fish swims these waters. So I get a little over optimistic at times. Glass half full people. If I don't catch another fish all day, I'm satisfied.<br />
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I was only on the water two and a half hours. I'm not sure how many fish I landed. It wasn't prolific by any means. I saw mayflies, caddis flies, big adult stone flies, and tons of midges. I switched to a lone royal wolf and managed a small fish on top water, and then missed at least six solid strikes from two sizable fish on a size ten stimulator in my last hole.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhALgVKD59sEsFFEKngZM859y8d5viDhIW_ksDLXnCpF6nFSD-2orUaOnhFzicQzmtf17zGBQVycqofPzWTo0inFp02w4goRpS61T4yVJUhVGnNn7VhQ0pLTESBmFn4rRBkvPIkQNgbuCc/s640/blogger-image-92598538.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhALgVKD59sEsFFEKngZM859y8d5viDhIW_ksDLXnCpF6nFSD-2orUaOnhFzicQzmtf17zGBQVycqofPzWTo0inFp02w4goRpS61T4yVJUhVGnNn7VhQ0pLTESBmFn4rRBkvPIkQNgbuCc/s640/blogger-image-92598538.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pinstriped Rainbow</td></tr>
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Walking back to the car, I wasn't certain if I would ever lay eyes on this section of stream again. I have only made it to the gauging station entrance of the South Mills maybe six times total in my life, but the stream remains the most defining, iconic, and meaningful Blue Ridge trout stream I know. I am very aware that when the Cherokee inhabited this land, the rainbows and big browns I seek did not exist in this stream. I wonder what the Cherokee called the South Mills? I wonder how big the brook trout were in 1000 A.D.? White loggers introduced the rainbows and browns in the 1800's, and those species quickly dominated its waters, forcing the brookies high into the headwaters, where they rarely grow over 7 inches.<br />
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As with many rivers, the Mills will most likely only yield smaller and fewer fish as the years pass. There are no dams to hinder spawning, no major erosion issues or development upstream dirtying it's waters, but acid rain, rising temperatures, and increased global population and pressure take there toll yearly. I found my I-phone vibrating from an incoming call as I stood thigh deep in the cold waters of this wilderness stream, confirming that our wild spaces are being altered in ways that rob us of their solace. One day, when my son is old enough to wield a fly rod, I hope to take him to his namesake's stream; a steam steeped in intimate history and protected far greater than many of Earth's other streams. Will there be any trout left in the South Mills when we return? Will my son look over countless rising trout in the Otter Hole before watching one sip his dry fly and make his rod bend? Will he ever lay eyes on those head waters at all? I hope yes will be the answer to all of the above. Remember, I am a hopeless optimist. I live plying the waters in the paradox my hopeless optimism creates.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMpk2fYleGC0SD36BSnkE4YQuosRbe2nS9kMnxMbtc4MX_14EUrJclpLHk09YY6ByMPgEqLClzkAPVZUhucS4zloJxn6J19mLtTiKNj-jLCGvQvvhyphenhyphensLaAe1IlTgM4nacXyP8jKrSuNhM/s640/blogger-image-383945566.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMpk2fYleGC0SD36BSnkE4YQuosRbe2nS9kMnxMbtc4MX_14EUrJclpLHk09YY6ByMPgEqLClzkAPVZUhucS4zloJxn6J19mLtTiKNj-jLCGvQvvhyphenhyphensLaAe1IlTgM4nacXyP8jKrSuNhM/s640/blogger-image-383945566.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My son Mills and his brown trout birthday cake</td></tr>
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Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14930840753825326104noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1699412933877590380.post-67970202420949051752014-05-03T12:38:00.003-07:002014-06-06T10:35:23.452-07:00Leroy's Army and the Carolina Four<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ-_R4hZIlpLfB0g0pVq7D-LvqXEiFElvYwCsQODX48vzFInHrKzPZ4T3lyQEJb_JYl3UjzQskCVSX1eIrVkrn4340rKjoIsq-PDeIC-SIMurQuwVXOhCAtsAEphKn5YnzsSbq7Vx2zjU/s1600/photo+1-2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ-_R4hZIlpLfB0g0pVq7D-LvqXEiFElvYwCsQODX48vzFInHrKzPZ4T3lyQEJb_JYl3UjzQskCVSX1eIrVkrn4340rKjoIsq-PDeIC-SIMurQuwVXOhCAtsAEphKn5YnzsSbq7Vx2zjU/s1600/photo+1-2.JPG" height="404" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fresh snow on two fourteeners. Shavano to the left and Antero to the right.</td></tr>
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If anyone looked in my car on Sunday, April 25 they would have found a slim suit, a box of My Little Ponies, two whips, notes for a wedding ceremony, a few copies of The Drake, Old Testament commentaries, overalls, and a small arsenal of fly fishing gear. I even think I'm weird with that laundry list of randomness. "My life be like ewww-ahhh." When they weighed my bag at the ticket counter of the airport, it was three pounds overweight. I stuffed my waders in my computer bag and carried my wading boots by hand through the airport and connecting flights. As I walked amongst the kaleidoscope of humanity that noisley fills the terminals of our nations airports, I could still hear bad, bad, Leroy Brown softly beckoning me 1600 miles away.<br />
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A continuing education class on the Old Testament lead me to the banks of the Arkansas near Buena Vista, Colorado. It was in this very class that I learned the true nature of the Song of Songs. It turns out it's not about fishing. The Hebrew poetry is actually about intimate human love. Who knew? All this time I thought it was scripture concerning the <i>Beloved</i> trout and the ever pursuant <i>Lover</i>, A.K.A. the fly angler. As I was educated throughout the week, my fishing hopes rested in a class-free Wednesday afternoon we had been afforded off.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sloan-dog-millionaire</td></tr>
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Braden works at ArkAnglers in BV. He's a heck of a guy. He helped me understand the bi-polar formula of the Arkansas river in Spring through my countless pre-trip phone calls to the shop. It's a formula of run-off, plus snowpack, minus sunlight, divided by fly choice, multiplied by the square root of caddis larva, over fluorocarbon tippet squared. Pretty straight forward stuff really. After we arrived, Braden proved to be even more flippin' awesome than previously expected. He pointed us 1,000 vertical feet down stream for our Wednesday afternoon assault, hoping for warmer water and blue winged olives to boot.<br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">As we pulled off the highway and parked riverside, we looked fiercely intimidating. If birds could talk, and fish spoke fowl, the ravens would have cried out to the trout "Swim, swim for your lives!," as soon as our tires touched stream side gravel. Nothing is more intimidating than four men ridin' dirty in a mini-van and a Hyundai Senata. That's Mad Max kind of scary. </span>A modern day cast of the 3 Amigos scrambled down the bank of the river with a firm grip on the cork, and the realization that this version of the 3 Amigo's had a fourth. Eric, Matt, Brian, and myself. The Carolina 4. Famous no where. Feared by rental cars everywhere.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQZpbkwhCRn-ZQy5p7CyhQjH7M4T1J-hVGHCj7a2ZS5LoIZeEPvXQbj3w19dAeYO91abtKNhBOGygz0_DJtQG27BUWzqWJstbrL1KAulo6nkyg0S8dM6MlRxwlZaI4OW_oIKZa01oR4QE/s1600/photo+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQZpbkwhCRn-ZQy5p7CyhQjH7M4T1J-hVGHCj7a2ZS5LoIZeEPvXQbj3w19dAeYO91abtKNhBOGygz0_DJtQG27BUWzqWJstbrL1KAulo6nkyg0S8dM6MlRxwlZaI4OW_oIKZa01oR4QE/s1600/photo+5.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
The water was up three times what is desired and a little stained. The plan was to focus on the seams of the soft water and stay close to the banks with a cocktail of golden stones and mayfly nymphs to start. Lines hit water, indicators bounced, and soon the turbulent Ark rendered up some of the wild browns she is infamous for. The fishing was never lights out, but it felt like fishing. Real fishing. Not the repeatedly-casting-over-educated-tail-water-trout, or the trying-to-figure-out-where-they-put-the-last-truck-load-of-stockers, kind of fishing. Rather, it was the working-fishy-looking-water-and-feeding-wild-trout-imitations-of-not-so-tiny-aquatic-bugs kind of fishing. Every cast felt as if it could produce a fish, and the anticipation of an over 20 inch brown never seemed far from the realm of possibility. Real. Wild. Trout. All of this in a setting fit for epic adventure and beauty...or the set of the 4 Amigos. The two settings are synonymous really. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Leroy has saucers for pec fins</td></tr>
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The fishing didn't come easy, and that was part of what made it feel so right. The BWO's never blanketed the water, and I nary saw a rise all afternoon. The stomachs I pumped showed a small variety of midges, caddis, and mayfly nymphs, and confirmed that fish weren't gorging themselves on BWO emergers. Or gorging on anything for that matter. Sadly, we did have to call in a search party after fishing. The search party was for my phone. Found it. #merica<br />
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A short drive to K's produced a greasy burger to-go before another class on the Kitubim wisdom literature. My belly was full on burger, and my mind was content knowing we could have filled our bellies on trout that night if we needed the sustenance. The 4 Amigo's practice catch-and -release... for the most part. Ole!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">hashtag no filter</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd2RqCeF6N618ti8DZmHFPPqmIM4VMcDOMWHh0kFmO9Y_0vBfc7sx4w_TO6oOzrvH5cB6MK-ELt34ARufd4bGrroq_CtQB4OckC3yfaLeYW8POCcvpLV9LD5eYFHyow4-EQ2guCV6DSWE/s1600/photo-6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd2RqCeF6N618ti8DZmHFPPqmIM4VMcDOMWHh0kFmO9Y_0vBfc7sx4w_TO6oOzrvH5cB6MK-ELt34ARufd4bGrroq_CtQB4OckC3yfaLeYW8POCcvpLV9LD5eYFHyow4-EQ2guCV6DSWE/s1600/photo-6.JPG" height="297" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A free stone stream, a nymph box, and a little Blue Winged Olive</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Leroy</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHBcN3sHNgHJu6Avx5Br-08-qkTZng3tkI2epLd8VbDQgY75tKhyphenhyphenZeeIc0R2_umu86zrg4CXH1df-ZbBSRFGm-jKYEUR2SY_FtpKwAwKgfHKux0UZi_GXppNjDMYkwrKo34qrH82K0-6M/s1600/photo+2-4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHBcN3sHNgHJu6Avx5Br-08-qkTZng3tkI2epLd8VbDQgY75tKhyphenhyphenZeeIc0R2_umu86zrg4CXH1df-ZbBSRFGm-jKYEUR2SY_FtpKwAwKgfHKux0UZi_GXppNjDMYkwrKo34qrH82K0-6M/s1600/photo+2-4.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunrise over an elk herd</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPpky6GMnqmnoM6ruAFFwARtRUhkWu47nFPVHhB2OYKqSJvdqZEOJHFxfxypOzxcyOeqPUo4AzAp2tHcCR_itwmMQ57MS0vcaIZCPGcITyqFDa0LYpoPbbloo5e2Ph-FER_H2l9hdkdps/s1600/photo+4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPpky6GMnqmnoM6ruAFFwARtRUhkWu47nFPVHhB2OYKqSJvdqZEOJHFxfxypOzxcyOeqPUo4AzAp2tHcCR_itwmMQ57MS0vcaIZCPGcITyqFDa0LYpoPbbloo5e2Ph-FER_H2l9hdkdps/s1600/photo+4.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
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Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14930840753825326104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1699412933877590380.post-37311380791579414032014-03-10T19:53:00.001-07:002014-03-11T04:41:00.406-07:00Strike Indicators - reviews and scenarios<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>Bobbers</b>. That's what strike indicators <i>truly </i>are. However, in the hierarchical flavor of many pretentious fly guys, the term "bobber" is reserved for the bait fishing basement dwellers of angling society and the pompous flingers of fur and feathers refer to the baby bobber as a strike indicator. This blog entry is intended to review different styles of strike indicators, cover some basic strike indicator placement, and to stop bobber bigotry. Bobbers are strike indicators too.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfjvlowPDU8clKxlBEaJuudI_IeeZGTRR65HR3xcnDzptBsZ5ymZL4pIXllTebde68-ZGT5Z1DSB9Mu9ugNsaElyrndcLRs6YdXyh-qHXEuA1utAUuddZgxrUymw5lW5OhRi3h4rl0ZBQ/s1600/BFUSA_night_fishing_bobbers_selection-2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfjvlowPDU8clKxlBEaJuudI_IeeZGTRR65HR3xcnDzptBsZ5ymZL4pIXllTebde68-ZGT5Z1DSB9Mu9ugNsaElyrndcLRs6YdXyh-qHXEuA1utAUuddZgxrUymw5lW5OhRi3h4rl0ZBQ/s1600/BFUSA_night_fishing_bobbers_selection-2.JPG" height="260" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just add batteries for night time brown poaching</td></tr>
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<b><u><span style="font-size: large;">What Indicators to Avoid... like for real, don't use these</span></u></b><br />
Personally I feel that putty indicators, sticker indicators, and big yarn indicators with rubber o-rings all suck.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3AxFcP5wTGOAG82Iv7-0_Y4UexcBEtyYzB_-do4pjN4NDOyBYv4utFYFIVRAK9fm1WKeW_ypH38woMEBlU_prQ3LKtg99XR3Wc3XZ9WD-uRrqB50OJLB_o5vo6fgULuKGwAl2ItH33RM/s640/blogger-image-1633456568.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3AxFcP5wTGOAG82Iv7-0_Y4UexcBEtyYzB_-do4pjN4NDOyBYv4utFYFIVRAK9fm1WKeW_ypH38woMEBlU_prQ3LKtg99XR3Wc3XZ9WD-uRrqB50OJLB_o5vo6fgULuKGwAl2ItH33RM/s640/blogger-image-1633456568.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not my favs. Clockwise from the top: Stickers, putty, o-ring yarn.</td></tr>
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<b>Putty</b> leaves residue on your leader, doesn't float well, and doesn't work as well in the cold when you are most apt to use an indicator/bobber/nibble detector/eat-meter.<br />
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<b>Sticker Indicators</b> are wind resistant and cause drag when casting, leave sticky residue on your leader, and don't float well. Burn 'em.<br />
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<b>Yarn Indicators with rubber o-rings </b>are also very wind resistant and hard to keep floating. Too much silicone applied to them and they sink from the weight of the silicone and rubber o-ring. Too little silicone and they sink from water absorption. <br />
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<b><u><span style="font-size: large;">My 3 favorite Strike Indicators ... (money makers) </span></u></b><br />
My go to strike indicators are Lightning Strike football indicators, Thing-a-ma-bobbers, and Lefty Kreh's indicator yarn. None of these are perfect, hence the reason I have three favorites. I use these in different scenarios.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBoB8XpaehnPFfXGg7ctU9FZlv5CsRjoP2qn2moITwKzRlHjsUAXtaDWAtxWLVn5zV5_1tWGscwPbdqXRyOrKPw4aPMJmeDsKqGmKqRjZ3c8bH58jxMV4ADm-tzfWbVyf_-lHA_F0P6jk/s1600/football+indicators.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBoB8XpaehnPFfXGg7ctU9FZlv5CsRjoP2qn2moITwKzRlHjsUAXtaDWAtxWLVn5zV5_1tWGscwPbdqXRyOrKPw4aPMJmeDsKqGmKqRjZ3c8bH58jxMV4ADm-tzfWbVyf_-lHA_F0P6jk/s1600/football+indicators.jpg" height="149" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I likes the white footballs for their bubble camo qualities</td></tr>
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<b>Lightning Strike Football Indicators </b>are the indicator I fish the most often. Most of my fishing is for wily wild trout or over-pressured big trout. I only use the small white one. I think these small white football indicators spook less fish when they hit the water and are more apt to look like a air bubble when they float over the head of picky fish. The best thing about these indicators is that you can slide them up and down your leader to adjust for depth without taking it off or kinking your leader, making these little indicators worth their weight in wood duck flank feathers. This bitty bobber is not invincible though. The small ones don't float great with heavy nymphs or strong currents. Also, the white air bubble theory works reverse on the fisherman, because it can be harder to see than the fluorescent glowing beacon indicators out there. They can also be a little tricky to get on your leader; like wrasslin a greased pig.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeKXKJ3W8A992TVgK94YEjOTFObOPtfuu74MDYNHgfOeUXG2QHm_gyJY46KFczyAee7OW4K16lHJTwJ_xChdwtpOzBVSJbMXhv1jv7gMwWAafXscLYckgfXqjAZiEFzk4meVktveN1um4/s1600/thingamabobber.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeKXKJ3W8A992TVgK94YEjOTFObOPtfuu74MDYNHgfOeUXG2QHm_gyJY46KFczyAee7OW4K16lHJTwJ_xChdwtpOzBVSJbMXhv1jv7gMwWAafXscLYckgfXqjAZiEFzk4meVktveN1um4/s1600/thingamabobber.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the industry standard fly bobber</td></tr>
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<b>Thingamabobber </b>embraced the obvious about 10 years ago when their products stormed the market<br />
and became the industry standard for fly fishing bobbers by calling a spade a spade. As it's name suggests, it's a bobber people. These things float high and they are easy to see and easy to use. Nuff said. Although these bright balls aren't aerodynamic, their heft allows them to punch through the air better than their light but clumsy yarn counterparts. If you get the bright colored ones, nothing is easier to see on the water. The kryptonite for the Thingamabobber is that it's loud to hit the water, can be easy to spot by educated trout who have previously felt the sting of a hook after watching the popular Thingamabobber float by, and they leave a sharp kink in your leader when you take them off or move them. I like to use these indicators when teaching people to nymph, fishing stocked trout with mush for brains, or when fishing deep water that needs and indicator to float high and keep your flies from snagging bottom or dropping deeper than where the fish are feeding.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUzBQYEmiHS6uz7B75LrGi3NkLoguGVkSN5n64sR944PU9uFsrmlS5zrgf2ad6N1pgUT22b3lItboGcvTFknX5QWdfU11elz5IXrInrOaNuswPLTqGr3Iobk8dslRC0F7KgpqKzyyfouI/s1600/LeftyIndicatorYarn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUzBQYEmiHS6uz7B75LrGi3NkLoguGVkSN5n64sR944PU9uFsrmlS5zrgf2ad6N1pgUT22b3lItboGcvTFknX5QWdfU11elz5IXrInrOaNuswPLTqGr3Iobk8dslRC0F7KgpqKzyyfouI/s1600/LeftyIndicatorYarn.jpg" height="112" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">best yarn indi if you go yarn</td></tr>
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<b>Lefty Kreh's Strike Indicator Yarn </b>is a super solid product. I use it for heavily pressured or spooky trout, particularly in low water situations. It dispenses in two twisted strands out of the top of a little cylinder, and I usually separate the strands and just cut a small piece from on strand. Just a tad of silicone will keep it riding high for a while, and this stuff floats really well, especially compared to other yarns out there. If you use both strands, you can float a heavy leaded nymph no problem. When it hits the water, it's as soft as a #18 adams dry flying laying down on the surface. It's the Ninja of bobbers. It's weaknesses are that you need a knife or scissors to cut a piece off, and the little girth hitch leaves a kink in your line. Also, you'll have to switch it out for a new piece a few times if you fish it all day. The plus side is its freakin' Ninja skills have helped me stick some big, smart trout.<br />
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<b>Other </b>strike indicators are out there for sure, and a lot of it boils down to personal preference. Czech nymphers use a piece of fluorescent amnesia type material in their leaders as an indicator. I haven't tried this style of strike indication yet, but I can see the merit in it. Fish Pimp makes a football type indicator as well that looks sexier than the lightning strike football packaging and product, but I haven't tried those either. <br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><u>Bobber Basics</u></b></span><br />
The simple rule of thumb is that you estimate the water depth, multiply by two, then place your indicator that distance from your lead fly. If the water is 3 feet deep, place your indicator 6 feet up your leader from your fly. This is assuming you are trying to get your fly to the bottom of the river. Another rule of thumb is if you aren't occasionally get hung up on the bottom, you probably aren't deep enough. Add weight or adjust your indicator.<br />
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The biggest variable in the twice-the-depth-of-the-water formula is current speed. If the water is ripping through a run, you need to place your indicator further from your lead fly to allow it time to sink deeper (If I am fishing two of three flies, I consider the fly that is closest to my fly line the lead fly). Counter to fast water, in slow water, you may need to slide your indicator down closer to your rig to prevent it from sinking like a rock and hanging up before your drift even makes it to the feeding lane. Beware! In slow water the fish are more wary and have more time to examine you flies, and an indicator closer to your set up may be enough for educated or spooky trout to move into the lock-jaw state, and kill your chance of an eat.<br />
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There you have it. Josh Jones' bobber bonanza. Remember these are only my opinions, and if you don't care for the opinion of a dead sexy, expert fly fisherman with chiseled abs and credentials to make anglers around the world blush...then your in luck, 'cause I'm just the local idiot. Happy bobber fishing rednecks.Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14930840753825326104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1699412933877590380.post-61325313641951656022014-01-04T07:39:00.000-08:002014-01-20T08:50:10.864-08:00Emergency Landing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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December 30, I caught the biggest trout of my 29 years of fly fishing, rounding out 2013 to be a great year on the fly for this guy. I may have hooked trout this size, but I've never landed them. The story of landing this trout is the best part of this fish tale, and it was only possible with a little help from my friends (cue Joe Cocker and the Wonder Years).<br>
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I had taken two high school guys up to the Davidson River with hopes of putting them on some big fish. Atticus is an experienced fly fisherman who is passionate about the sport. Hayden is a little newer to fly fishing, and was breaking in his new rod, reel, and chest pack he had just received for Christmas. The biggest hope was to get Hayden on a good fish. After about an hour and a half with no strikes, I was ready to move to a different piece of river. As I was trying to convince the fellas to move down stream, we noticed a few takes on top, and thought a little hatch of midges was emerging. Two cast later I set the hook on a huge brown. I immediately asked Atticus to grab my net saying "this will be the biggest fish of my life!"<br>
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I was fishing three flies on a four weight, all on 6x tippet. My subconsious told me there was no way I was going to land this seemingly 24+ inch trout. She ran me down into the deep hole below the run I hooked her in, then proceeded to look for every rock and log she could wrap my leader around. I was confident she would stay in the safety of the deep pool, but after about 5 minutes, she made a run down stream towards a long set of shallow rapids full or rocks, limbs, and debris. I had to duck a fallen tree and run my rod tip under a submerged limb to keep from getting wrapped up. The big hen settled in a little piece of pocket water just above a log jam, 60 yards downstream from where I hooked her. Atticus suggested we spook it back up towards the big pool to narrow the variables of landing She-Brown the Wonder Trout. Super idea. We got behind her, spooked her, commenced dodging logs and limbs like a fly rod clad ninja back upstream, and sighed in relief when she entered the tail out of the big hole.<br>
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The trout proceeded to dive 10 to 12 feet deep multiple times, without seeming to tire, causing all kinds of strain on the 6x tippet, and creating a massive tight belly in the fly line bending under the weight of fish and current. She nearly had me down to my backing a couple of times. As I thought the trout was finally beginning to tire, it headed towards a couple of small fallen trees at the far side of the pool which I had managed to move the fish away from early. Maybe I was overconfident at this point, because i didn't worry, but the fish slowly moved in amongst the many limbs of the submerged trees as I applied pressure trying to coax it in the opposite direction. It slowly writhed in amongst the labyrinth of limbs, like a Katherine Zeta through the laser field in Entrapment, then the pressure I applied grew static and I realized my line was wrapped in the limbs. I knew my fish was certainly gone.<br>
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Atticus had been scrambling across the tail out trying to get to the far side of the deep hole to spook the fish away from the tree fall. He crawled on top of the trees laying across the river, but my line staid tight around a limb. I was certain the fish had broken the 6x tippet at this point, and returned to the safety of the deep water. "Do you see anything," I asked Atticus with low expectation. "No. I stirred up mud walking over here and can't see anything," he replied. I was dejected as he hovered above the cold waters lying on a few waterlogged branches.<br>
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Then it happen. Atticus communicated with focus and determination, "I see it! I'm going for it." He plunged his right arm in amongst the tangle of limbs, shoulder deep in the frigid water, and lifted the thick brown trout up into the 36 degree air by the tail, gripping it like a steelhead. Victory.<br>
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Hayden, Atticus, and I all celebrated with hoots, hollers, and jigs. Hayden and I tromped across the river to examine all 25 inches of the healthy trout. After a few hero shots, the fish vigorously swam out of my hand and back into the hole it had fought me in minutes earlier. It was the biggest trout I'd ever landed; a fish of a lifetime.<br>
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Maybe it was worn out from the fight, and holed up under the safety of the branches, to tired to leave when Atticus approached the fallen trees and climbed on top of them, but for some reason we landed the beast. We shouldn't have, but we did. One good head shake would have easily snapped the 6x tippet with my line wrapped around a tree. This was definitely the fish that should have got away. Without Atticus as super net boy and landing coach, it would have been just another fish story about the one that got away. <br>
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<br>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14930840753825326104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1699412933877590380.post-28655314730007883562013-12-29T12:46:00.001-08:002014-04-13T12:05:31.311-07:00Christmas (lights-out) Trout<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Here is a tale of two trout trips. They take place on the same stream about a week apart, but are as dissimilar as Waffle House and a Japanese express food joint. Ok, maybe thats a bad simile. Japanese Express and Waffle house food may be eerily alike.<br>
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It's the most wonderful time of the year… Christmas rain, Christmas lights, Christmas trout, and the reminder that Christ offered up an opportunity for all mankind to avoid eternal damnation. It's a stellar combo, the latter of which may bear slightly more importance. This is the time of year that my schedule allows me more chances to get on the water, and it's also the time of year the Carolina skies tend to render copious doses of winter rain. To boot, December temperatures in the Old North State can be down right bi-polar (<i>not the North Pole-South Pole kinda of bi-polar, cause that would be just plum cold. The up-and-down-inconsistant-current-Tarheel-Basketball kind of bi-polar. Glad I could clear that up for you)</i>. Regardless of the the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde highs in the 70's and lows in the teens during the same week, I fish when my schedule allows, not when conditions are perfect. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Matt navigating the gorge</td></tr>
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Tuesday December 17 was partly cloudy, highs near 60, and the area streams had plenty of water after the previous week's rains. I chose to fish a new-to-me gorge section of a local stream. Best fishing decision in a while, because the fishing was lights out! I landed about 20 fish in 4 hours and I only fished hard the first 2 hours. Each good looking piece of water coughed up pre-spawn pink finned rainbows, some of which were well above average for WNC wild trout standards. I had never fished this stretch of water before, and was stoked to find it only 45 minutes from home. I even hooked what was a 14-16 inch wild trout that spit the hook before I could get him to the net. The black girdle bug and superman prince never needed to be changed from my line, and my thing-a-ma-bobber bounced frequently in the 47 degree water.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-0yZaZ9vPoyzYKNc-xtLyav3_fgceeRrMpJ5X901ZRQjUjrTRdcsBPtS9O8Qs5eQK1Mnqp9uGQcP36SCoLLVLI3QSvASl9g_iLJHZ1jApQiwm8UgmrSjVGddh6x8MRJ8gyKz1YGj26mg/s1600/IMG_0552.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-0yZaZ9vPoyzYKNc-xtLyav3_fgceeRrMpJ5X901ZRQjUjrTRdcsBPtS9O8Qs5eQK1Mnqp9uGQcP36SCoLLVLI3QSvASl9g_iLJHZ1jApQiwm8UgmrSjVGddh6x8MRJ8gyKz1YGj26mg/s400/IMG_0552.JPG" width="400"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pink pre-spawn fins on a wild rainbow</td></tr>
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A week later on Christmas Day, I fished the section of gorge just below my previous trip, and it was a very different day. The water was a bit higher and still falling after the recent rains. The previous two nights had seen lows in the teens, and the Christmas Day high was a balmy 37. Dreams of Tiny Tim offering "a Christmas trout... for EVERYONE" danced in my head on the way there, but I ended up with mostly coal in my creel on the crisp Christmas wade. </div>
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I knew there were fish in the stream. That was confirmed 8 days early. And after plying the depths of every run and pool, including the most productive hole from the previous week with nary a bite, I got the first strike of the day an hour and a half into the outing while swinging my girdle bug in to tie on a streamer. It only reaffirmed my notion to swing a streamer in search of the fatty I had hooked and week early. I tied on a Christmas Tree. I really don't know what the fly is called, but it's just gold and copper flashabou with lead eyes. It looks like tinsel, and it was Christmas day for crying out loud. It screamed out to me like Princess Leia desperately calling out to Obi Wan as "My only hope!" Three minutes later I was holding a ten inch, pale brown Christmas trout that would only have served as a snack for the optimistic tiny little Tim.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvGPrlAPfyUfms29SjlayPk6iHqDVYsdBzspOtPts50uvYd4EJkCs8TLfvvnrrVJGH_u6L3f-aLuYHWgkw42z_g2AndWHjVzWJwLTW66QaqzCB108-HlTGwoPuazGHTijn5VdplF2xiks/s1600/photo+5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvGPrlAPfyUfms29SjlayPk6iHqDVYsdBzspOtPts50uvYd4EJkCs8TLfvvnrrVJGH_u6L3f-aLuYHWgkw42z_g2AndWHjVzWJwLTW66QaqzCB108-HlTGwoPuazGHTijn5VdplF2xiks/s320/photo+5.JPG" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Christmas Tree streamer</td></tr>
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However, the fish that removeth the skunk need not be a behemoth to make the lander of said minnow an elated angler (wikipedia<i> <b>FACT</b></i>). It was the first brown I had ever caught from this stream, and the only fish of the day. </div>
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The tale of two days on the stream helped remind me that you can't judge a stream by one trip. The weather was different on the two days I was there, but it couldn't have impacted the water temps that drastically. There are days when the bite is good, and you know why. There are days when the bite is off for obviously reasons. But then there are all the rest of the days. The majority of the days. Where the bite may be mediocre, stone cold, of red hot, and we may never truly know why. We can speculate and leave pleased with one Christmas trout, or leave floating on 20 pink wild rainbows.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhop4isdq-g5-3lkQqK-4u0xm1vKwgqZXMWpl4oLgxft1jwAXpQdbyVPvhv7oU9l1cWgkNkHIEXCsKgQf3ZeGuJgvRJnAl5REIRNoRkpIxQQ5mzxLEHCtoXyxRtas2FUpNDqtfE38poamE/s1600/photo+4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhop4isdq-g5-3lkQqK-4u0xm1vKwgqZXMWpl4oLgxft1jwAXpQdbyVPvhv7oU9l1cWgkNkHIEXCsKgQf3ZeGuJgvRJnAl5REIRNoRkpIxQQ5mzxLEHCtoXyxRtas2FUpNDqtfE38poamE/s400/photo+4.JPG" width="400"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Christmas trout knocks the skunk off. Merry Christmas to me!</td></tr>
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Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from Bows and Browns to you!</div>
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Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14930840753825326104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1699412933877590380.post-40266470251974786832013-11-30T21:37:00.000-08:002014-01-04T11:42:32.756-08:00Fall Freeze Out <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU50qdf7RpY77rpxvDjMPds5jVYdV3X5bExj9UALBQyInZ-yjCCuVSUfBgX30MwsANMiNlVy0MM2Ub7-A-9qwIouc9m3VW7hhfaSr3MlXob5qPM_SiOgAdbOLyQtQuPcTnnyIxuCqUofo/s1600/photo+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU50qdf7RpY77rpxvDjMPds5jVYdV3X5bExj9UALBQyInZ-yjCCuVSUfBgX30MwsANMiNlVy0MM2Ub7-A-9qwIouc9m3VW7hhfaSr3MlXob5qPM_SiOgAdbOLyQtQuPcTnnyIxuCqUofo/s640/photo+1.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Whats cooler than cool? Ice cold.</td></tr>
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It's been a pretty cold November here in North Carolina. This morning when I stepped in the river around 8:30, it was 22 balmy degrees of guide icing cold. It helped concoct what would be a perplexing morning for me. I hoped the chill would keep the throngs off the Dirty D, but the wader clad army was full tilt on this Thanksgiving weekend. I bypassed the crowds of the usual honey holes upstream of the bridge and near the parking lot, and walked a bit down stream to one of my favorite, and typically less visited, runs.<br />
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The water was flowing just over 100 cfs and had been as high as 1000 cfs a few days before after the rain and snow. The "log hole" i was headed for needs at least 100 cfs to fish well, and seems to be getting shallower over the years as more water gets diverted to the other channel of the river. Upon arrival, I was pleased to see fish actively moving about and even rising regularly to sipp midges. I fished a three fly rig with a stone fly as my lead fly, then an egg, then a midge larvae. I cycled through the normal midges, and changed eggs once. I managed to get only one strike from a naive dink in two hours of persistent nymphing. I could smell a skunk. I hadn't been skunked trout fishing in … I can't remember the last time I was skunked. At least 9 years. Hashtag humble.<br />
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I decided to move back to the crowded section near the parking lot and see what was crackin. I had about on hour left to fish before I had to lay down my trout wrangling (or lack there of) for toddler wrangling. I slipped into to a familiar run, a piece of transition water at the head of a long slick. The fish were visible, and not as seemingly active as the fish I had left. I still had my version of a Morris Stone as my lead fly, a carolina egg, and the trusty red midge on my 6x SA flouro tippet (buy one get one free at <a href="http://www.davidsonflyfishing.com/" target="_blank">Davidson River Outfitters</a> right now). In less than five minutes, I was into my first fish of the day. Red midge. Soon after I had my biggest fish of the day, a football of a rainbow that ate the stone fly. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJJIaB-gCnYkQRXl5f-5PUKyTHkR3qtBQg0Yu9gw2XdIgnGPfAzhXE2dlobJnuKZxClmcKosN_BLuHBwYCj1cypo8tJI4gp0v3GGR29d3HKW94S_qRx8pQ8xz0dSiCPNxGVKwuXqCN0Ic/s1600/photo+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJJIaB-gCnYkQRXl5f-5PUKyTHkR3qtBQg0Yu9gw2XdIgnGPfAzhXE2dlobJnuKZxClmcKosN_BLuHBwYCj1cypo8tJI4gp0v3GGR29d3HKW94S_qRx8pQ8xz0dSiCPNxGVKwuXqCN0Ic/s400/photo+2.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
A couple near me seemed excited, disappointed, and perplexed after I landed two fish rather quickly, so I struck up a nice conversation with the lady about the finicky Davidson River and my fly choices and tactics. I walked over to her, showed her my flies, gave her my productive pieces of water, then proceeding to quickly pull 4 fish out of the piece of water she had been previously fishing with no success. I'd been lieing if I told you I didn't enjoy hearing her shout out "He caught another one!" a few times in a fashion uncouth of proper fly fishers. My ego is grateful for her uncouthness.<br />
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The 45 minutes of fishing near the couple from Atlanta/my-biggest-fishing-fan, was fantastic. Just before leaving I had that inner dialogue and self-pact that anglers often construct in their minds; "I'll leave as soon as I catch one more." After I caught the next fish, I deemed him to small to count, so I caught another in about four cast, and then climbed the bank of rhododendron with a goofy smirk on my face. I felt like Babe Ruth calling his shot, except my accomplishment was way lamer and not as significant, and nothing at all like Babe calling his shot. Nonetheless, I left the river feeling like the Great Bambino, having called my own shot. Thank you Asian Atlanta lady for adding to my delusions of grandeur. If only I could leave the river like that every time.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD3HjeFJjBTGVEkGBjqJ9O9ot2QifD2MHfrc8VFHrSO6-jiVr1hsL0Bd08b7cxSm88c8KONIu1KCmT8XW1wq9oDShu3jUX36qdJhbKN62fqqtHJeCQK-O7rv2XQZZr23VrmX710CVToAs/s1600/photo+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD3HjeFJjBTGVEkGBjqJ9O9ot2QifD2MHfrc8VFHrSO6-jiVr1hsL0Bd08b7cxSm88c8KONIu1KCmT8XW1wq9oDShu3jUX36qdJhbKN62fqqtHJeCQK-O7rv2XQZZr23VrmX710CVToAs/s400/photo+3.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
As the kidz say on twitter, I left the river smh (shaking my head). Though grateful for the stellar 45 minutes of fishing bliss, why couldn't I get those fish in the log hole to play ball with me? The fish who did impale themselves on my hooks took the Morris Stone and red midge at almost an equal rate. I stuck one on the carolina egg. The fish in the first hole snubbed the myriad of my offerings. There were hardly any risers in the section I caught fish in, and plenty of rises in the stretch that kicked my glutes. I suppose the risers down stream that heartlessly shunned me were dialed in on some emerging midge. The stone fly I was using as a lead fly must have been getting my midge trailer lower than the film trapped midges the fish must have been keying on. STILL… you think in my buffet offering of midge larvae, a few troots would have eaten my midge even if it was lower in the water column. The water was pretty shallow, so it wasn't as if my flies were floating under the fish. A buddy suggested a greased leader, size 26 fly, and hook sets on any visible rise near the area I suspected my fly to be in could have cracked the case of selective sippers. I'm not sure I'm compelled to fish in that technical of manner yet. I'll just move and find some more willing fishes to fall prey to my current arsenal of tactics… and an excitably city lady with more fly savvy than her hubz to cheer me on. Until then, see y'all in the funny pages.<br />
<br />Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14930840753825326104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1699412933877590380.post-76696398265749724252013-11-07T18:18:00.002-08:002013-11-09T11:49:26.253-08:00Into the Wild<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgae-iDk-6dSSsF7G6_8TwJ4AXf8wD6Is7JYRZlRGhByoJeFyKmL1pzhEyKQOuPKGJd3-8ZbtiKBZ_gGRR4pv3GZXnZ1v6ggQ_8UgmAg-EG1aiLH0wa3SDAplhQfTQLv1rLiNT9dgoALEw/s1600/IMG_4988.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgae-iDk-6dSSsF7G6_8TwJ4AXf8wD6Is7JYRZlRGhByoJeFyKmL1pzhEyKQOuPKGJd3-8ZbtiKBZ_gGRR4pv3GZXnZ1v6ggQ_8UgmAg-EG1aiLH0wa3SDAplhQfTQLv1rLiNT9dgoALEw/s400/IMG_4988.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
It was one of those days when the stars aligned. I had a Monday slated to fish, a remote section of river had rare flows that made it accessible and fishable the same Monday, and the October weather was going to be in the low 60's and overcast. I had only fished this gorge section once in my life... and I got skunked. It had been 8 or 9 years since I made the trek into the gorge one hot mid-summer day, and the legends of big browns never came to fruition. Heck, dink rainbows never came to fruition. I felt like this October trip would at least serve as a litmus test for the fishery. <br />
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The hike in started with a waist high stream crossing to get to the trail, and subsequently, the next trek up the gorge in waders quickly became a wader-sweat-fest, despite temps in the mid 50's. 30 minutes later, we hop in the stream and I begin to work it with a Bill's Provider and CDC pheasant tail dropper. Less than 15 minutes later, I'm holding a gem of a 10 inch bow and I began to wonder if legends will prove true. At least I can verify that there are fish in the river.<br />
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Scrambling up house sized boulders, sliding down the other side and trying not to break my stick or my neck was half the adventure. If my buddy Sam hadn't tagged along I wouldn't have fished this section of river due to the remote sketchiness of gorge. Sam saw a big fish chase his streamer after I directed him to pull it under a overhanging rock. I then miss a few fish, and 2 hours later it seemed to slow down and disappoint.<br />
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I then walk up to a long run with a big tail out that looks promising. This run was 5 or 6 feet deep instead or 10 plus feet like a lot of the other holes. I switched to a Kevin's Stonefly with a size 18 BWO emerger. The olives were come off pretty good by hatch standards for Western North Carolina. Second or third cast, I hook the biggest fish of the day to that point, and when I play it in close to my feet another large trout is chasing it! I think it was a brown around 18 inches. The fish I have on spits the hook right at my feet, so I'll guess he was 12 inches or so. Moments later I'm into a fish that has my click pawl screaming. I had to play it for five minutes. I was certain it would be every bit of 18 inches. Turned out it was a generous 14 inch rainbow, but it was a great wild NC trout that fought like mad.<br />
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I caught a couple more, then felt compelled to take Sam to a DH stream near buy and get him on some trout. It was his first time fly fishing, and the wild trout were a little too quick for him. Even thought the fishing seemed to be picking up the further we got from the trail head, and it looked like a long stretches rock pile before the next big hole and a good time to bush whack our way back to the trail. It left me wanting to go back and walk in a little further before hopping in the stream. Don't worry, this remote stream still had some unsavory visitors out in the rugged wilderness.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">old night crawler container in a artificial lure zone</td></tr>
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Sam caught his first trout on a fly rod about an hour and a half later, rounding it out to be a great day. Can't wait to get back to this gorge, but who knows how long it will be into the stars align again. I am confident those plunge pools hold some brutes. I arrived home to find the latest Drake had arrived in the mail. It was a solid day.<br />
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Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14930840753825326104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1699412933877590380.post-56254536821602128002013-09-29T13:20:00.001-07:002014-03-12T09:11:47.920-07:00South Holston River Float<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIsdPirOs1klTP-sFM1bUQVaLNA_yfSX-2UU68wNsqWesGi5IyN7FkqoIWAP5Q5mcuXdWOot5sk75gVB7C9pQgZaA-UvZX_T7Fxbq3ExzceXKpcdcoSD2XwhyI0nAlnXW-Jc_n5ayUpmM/s1600/IMG_4621.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIsdPirOs1klTP-sFM1bUQVaLNA_yfSX-2UU68wNsqWesGi5IyN7FkqoIWAP5Q5mcuXdWOot5sk75gVB7C9pQgZaA-UvZX_T7Fxbq3ExzceXKpcdcoSD2XwhyI0nAlnXW-Jc_n5ayUpmM/s640/IMG_4621.jpg" height="465" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">South Holston River</td></tr>
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I got a call on Thursday morning from my friend John, and when I finally listened to the message early Thursday afternoon, it was an invitation to stay at the Watauga River Lodge Thursday night and float the river the next day. For free. Check your voice mail folks, you never know what you might be missing. Low and behold, the stars aligned, and my calendar allowed me to skip a meeting on Friday and make it work. After helping feed the kids, rubber meet asphalt and I was headed east towards Johnson City, Tennessee (insert Old Crow Medicine Show tune here) with visions of drift boats and brood browns in my head.<br />
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Upon arrival at the lodge I moseyed over to the fire ring, got a jolly greeting from John Barker (a.k.a Smokey and the Bandit), met some new folks, and enjoyed the fall chill in the air with a Sweetwater Pale and sea salt and pepper kettle chips. After swapping some stories, we hit the hay at the lodge. Good pillows and good toilet paper. I think that covers the bases to let you know Brownie Liles of the <a href="http://www.wataugariverlodge.com/" target="_blank">Watauga River Lodge</a> isn't trying to cut corners. Great, great place.<br />
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We hit up a down-home-greasy-spoon-dive-of-an-East-Tennessee-diner for breakfast, then met our guides for the day, <a href="http://www.blueridgeanglers.com/ollie.html" target="_blank">Ollie Smith</a> and <a href="http://www.highcountryangler.com/about-high-country-angler" target="_blank">Evan Dowdy</a>, around 8 am. Both Ollie and Evan own their own guide services, but are contracted out by Brownie when they are available and Brownie has more clients than his full time staff can handle. Ollie actually taught me to tie flies back in 1998 while I was at Appalachian State University, and I have kept up with him a bit through story and legend since, so it was great to see him. As the guides met their four fisherman for the day, they suggested we hit the S. Holston instead of the Watauga. I grew even giddier at this suggestion! The S. Holston is the "dream stream" of TN. 6,000 fish per mile. My new acquaintance Dave and I hopped in Evan's ride, and John and Mark hopped in Ollie's rig and we were off to the put-in at the weir damn. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrey55bsGQDF8awz-ZlOX5Zln3lTV-Bg1CVTgTADEbIRtmOcPnkpmhd0mB5o7ymxX4NATYXWTzcRxCreXJdNPLcRNsIimWyqCRs4-LKMeZn_7pXRMLxv7IC3SOF9HFzA1gGJ_VcAZiZa8/s1600/IMG_4624.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrey55bsGQDF8awz-ZlOX5Zln3lTV-Bg1CVTgTADEbIRtmOcPnkpmhd0mB5o7ymxX4NATYXWTzcRxCreXJdNPLcRNsIimWyqCRs4-LKMeZn_7pXRMLxv7IC3SOF9HFzA1gGJ_VcAZiZa8/s400/IMG_4624.jpg" height="295" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Put in on North side of the river. One on South bank too.</td></tr>
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I had never fished out of a drift boat, and I was itching to get on the freakin' water. #Stoked. When we arrived at the put in, it was a bit of a circus. I don't know, I guess about A MILLION boats and trailers were there. Seriously, I would assume 15-20 drifts boats launched from the weir dam that morning. Rivers that are congested are usually congested for a reason.<br />
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Evan rigged us up in the parking lot, dropped his Hyde drift boat in the gin clear cold waters, and we were dead drifting 3 nymphs under an indicator before you could say tungsten bead head. A bunch of boats were anchored up near the put-in, presumably trying to put clients on the less savvy stocked rainbows, but we drifted quickly below the barrage of boats because we were floating the entire 7 miles of tailwater and were more interested in the wild browns than crowds. 15 minutes in, Dave was hooked into a 18" rainbow that spit the hook after a decent fight. 20 minutes in, I boated our first fish, a feisty 10 inch stocker bow.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4vaQ1I1KZDVEipHGldCeImWKCW30Qb1hzw-gBTr3n6FAT1zLXIdnmaseA97w0N9EdSWPVPiSY5qlwxDMDbC7D1xHYsqFdaIuXb2WUF5He2I8S5YW7_fEX4p_KPYsqdpV4130ltxJWupg/s1600/IMG_4622.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4vaQ1I1KZDVEipHGldCeImWKCW30Qb1hzw-gBTr3n6FAT1zLXIdnmaseA97w0N9EdSWPVPiSY5qlwxDMDbC7D1xHYsqFdaIuXb2WUF5He2I8S5YW7_fEX4p_KPYsqdpV4130ltxJWupg/s400/IMG_4622.jpg" height="296" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">another drift boat in the passing lane</td></tr>
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The fishing was never hot. We picked up a fish every 20 or 30 minutes on average. After 7 hours on the water we boated about 20 fish between Dave and I. Dave, the engineer out fished me. Freakin' engineer brains gave him the edge. I bet I landed 7 or 8 of our 20ish fish. Evan worked hard on the oars, changing flies, eyeing indicators with us, and untangling my embarrassing triple nymph bird's nests. My pride would like to blame my tangles on longer cast than usual with a bigger indicator than usual. Casting 3 flies at a time is always a little tricky, but I looked like a rookie at times. Evan was patient and servant hearted all day long though.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFpVNJlmFd1wWGVpE0G6f1iGUPoPQAHt2oLezo5JqdJcNo3ZBj64qR8EkjyzuilHf528czYlmwKVi5EFaUuUT7JdSwL_1v7M7-qEsNTsLV0RMBfkE0kCo71o1JePc2G3rD2bdW5BS9tCM/s1600/IMG_4620.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFpVNJlmFd1wWGVpE0G6f1iGUPoPQAHt2oLezo5JqdJcNo3ZBj64qR8EkjyzuilHf528czYlmwKVi5EFaUuUT7JdSwL_1v7M7-qEsNTsLV0RMBfkE0kCo71o1JePc2G3rD2bdW5BS9tCM/s640/IMG_4620.jpg" height="470" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">typical 12" wild brown from the bowels of the SoHo</td></tr>
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I didn't take many fish pics. I kept waiting for that picture worthy fish. My biggest was a 14 inch brown. You could tell that everyone out was really having to work for their fish and the it was a tough bite that day. We saw a random sulpher or two, got into some Blue Winged Olive spinners a few times, and a few BWO duns near the end of the day. I saw some big ol' browns in that crystal clear 45 degree water. We mostly blind casted towards grass lines, seams, and other feeding lanes, dead drifting our nymph riggs. The underwater grass was vibrant green and beautiful. We picked up the majority of our fish on scud imitations. Evan commented that they were taking the flies with reservation instead of nailing them, and often fish would come unbuttoned in the water or as soon as they were in the net. A steady eye and quick hook set were the fisherman's friend. Evan's watchful eye helped me hook into a number of strikes I would have missed otherwise. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNQMAnsqm7NKFGR0szfMauFLJgPRkIc81aJ5f9z772enbBkpS3IbQJqfH-6tvvUHcCKd3E_Q6UYbiv1BMwiMbrPHbA-RUAEJu9IuiCRdgjOtiqyyK-4VUwbmnKDr1gh5AbZwHV7BgksgM/s1600/IMG_4623.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNQMAnsqm7NKFGR0szfMauFLJgPRkIc81aJ5f9z772enbBkpS3IbQJqfH-6tvvUHcCKd3E_Q6UYbiv1BMwiMbrPHbA-RUAEJu9IuiCRdgjOtiqyyK-4VUwbmnKDr1gh5AbZwHV7BgksgM/s400/IMG_4623.jpg" height="257" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Valet parking at our lunch spot</td></tr>
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Maybe the biggest surprise of the day was lunch. It was top shelf stuff. Evan and Ollie set up tables on an island and broke out fried chicken, pimento cheese, crisp apples, home made "Bossy Sauce" fruit dip, pickled okra, assorted cheeses, pepperoni, summer sausage, chips, and water. Ollie had also closely protected some thin, crispy-chewy, caramelized oatmeal raisin cookies that tasted double good with bossy sauce. I've been promised a "great lunch" stream-side before, but this was truly great. After a slow morning of fishing, the good eats and soft chair literally put fuel in my tank and lifted my spirits. If you ever need a guide for East Tennessee, I highly recommend <a href="http://www.highcountryangler.com/about-high-country-angler" target="_blank">Evan</a>, <a href="http://www.blueridgeanglers.com/ollie.html" target="_blank">Ollie</a>, or booking through <a href="http://www.wataugariverlodge.com/index.html" target="_blank">Watauge River Lodge</a>. We got Grade A performance and professionalism during a day when the bite was never really on.<br />
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The day ended much like it started. When you only get a bite every 10 or fifteen minutes and your blind casting, it gets easy to get sloppy, loose focus, and miss strikes during conditions where strikes are too precious to screw up. Close to the take out I had a heavy strike, solid hook set, and a bend deep in my rod. Seconds later a fat 16-18 inch female brown exploded a foot above the water's surface, head shaking, and successfully spitting the hook. I was grateful to at least feel one of the browns the SoHo is known for, even if only for a moment. Then much like the circus at the put in, we watched a hilarious, yet painfully long process, of a pontoon boat trying to trailer at the take out. After chuckling and repeatedly looking at our watches for 15 minutes, the bottom of the drift boat touched the concrete of the boat ramp, and the return to North Carolina began. To steal a Clooney quote from <i>Oh Brother Where Art Thou, </i>I feel like one float on the SoHo will only "arouse my appetite without fully bedding it back down again."<br />
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Big shout-out to John Barker for always caring for me, and making this day happen. You da man. 10-4, over-and-out good buddy.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAXkbGYCE1k_gUnsrdvDAwNfScvVKyJQAzQxKzUnDCqQEGPRSiDwfzk3GrICM6tVDhuz0bH4X6Haw1qNhyPPwp4IZoHBA_M1bBE1wPkyFqcmJzuZitKfpEIyArQo1C613fEn-k3pRQrHM/s1600/IMG_4594.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAXkbGYCE1k_gUnsrdvDAwNfScvVKyJQAzQxKzUnDCqQEGPRSiDwfzk3GrICM6tVDhuz0bH4X6Haw1qNhyPPwp4IZoHBA_M1bBE1wPkyFqcmJzuZitKfpEIyArQo1C613fEn-k3pRQrHM/s400/IMG_4594.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My boy Mills celebrated his first birthday the following day. This is his brown trout cake I decorated, in honor of one of my favorite streams and his name's sake, the Mills River.</td></tr>
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<br />Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14930840753825326104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1699412933877590380.post-61551919061571221982013-09-14T13:39:00.000-07:002013-09-15T11:38:08.688-07:00North Carolina's State Game Fish - Red Fish<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3MXL5UAjwyKb4Ql0LNK0SNE0ggDqE0iGqqUNB2QM12lpwTnW0_1M1yXS9qMPXW0VGFcFnIxdCVqN4MAkafHZBqguoEoUVvjDCLxA_ZYXaIoUR9o8ELEqtqAHbQiQ2Nz1iY1w64EwaWtI/s1600/dead-fish-in-net.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3MXL5UAjwyKb4Ql0LNK0SNE0ggDqE0iGqqUNB2QM12lpwTnW0_1M1yXS9qMPXW0VGFcFnIxdCVqN4MAkafHZBqguoEoUVvjDCLxA_ZYXaIoUR9o8ELEqtqAHbQiQ2Nz1iY1w64EwaWtI/s640/dead-fish-in-net.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">redfish left to rot in a NC gill net</td></tr>
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Redfish, puppy drum, red drum, and spot tails are all the same creature. The Red Drum is the state game fish of NC, and dang are they fun to catch on the fly. Gill netting in still practiced in NC, and some people are fighting to get it stopped. Read this article on Captain Gordan's Blog, <a href="http://captgordon.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Redfish Rendezvous</a> to get a better idea of the implications of gill netting.Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14930840753825326104noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1699412933877590380.post-9890562643492785182013-08-26T18:47:00.005-07:002013-08-26T21:42:11.671-07:00Costa Del Mar Fisch 580 Revies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsRxknHBeKuNYfk-Jbg2JLOzEJnVveAS0JSTNWGD6ox42cYYUWHqP1OQsYO9DbSYn6SiQik8xWgmTFJGnPoS4Myz5pJz-4Tg7ecoWUkeagb2E4T7BBnLMzKemXgx82pSv4PPyYdoRKQjI/s1600/costa_fisch_tort_silver_mirror_580_a2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsRxknHBeKuNYfk-Jbg2JLOzEJnVveAS0JSTNWGD6ox42cYYUWHqP1OQsYO9DbSYn6SiQik8xWgmTFJGnPoS4Myz5pJz-4Tg7ecoWUkeagb2E4T7BBnLMzKemXgx82pSv4PPyYdoRKQjI/s400/costa_fisch_tort_silver_mirror_580_a2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
About 3 years ago I was fishing with my buddy Ryan. He often has the latest, more expensive gear. He let me try on his Costas with the 580 lenses. My jaw dropped. Looking into a popular slick on the Davidson River, the water seemed to disappear and the trout seemed to be hovering above the seemingly waterless river bottom. I was sold. However, when I looked up the prices on the 580 lenses, and realized they were all well above $200, I chuckled and kissed the idea of the magic glasses goodbye.<br />
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Around christmas that same year, I suggested I wanted some Costas to my wife. I had tried a few pair on, and really liked the way the Fisch frames fit my head. While looking on EBay for the less expensive lenses, we stumbled upon a new pair a Fische 580 silver mirrored sun glasses and scored them for about $120. That was about $140 <i>LESS</i> than retail. Merry Christmas to me.<br />
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Since, I have really loved my glasses, and their performance is top shelf. When I was without them for a couple of weeks, sight fishing for carp with out them seemed impossible with out them. They really give you x-ray vision into the water. Here is a quick list of pros and cons.<br />
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Pros:<br />
-THE BEST polarized lens out there<br />
-Silver mirrored lenses are recommended for fresh water fishing<br />
-Very sturdy frames<br />
-Rubber grips on frame keep glasses very secure above your years<br />
-Great case to store them in<br />
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Cons:<br />
-The rubber on the bottom started separating but Costa fixed it for free<br />
-If there isn't a breeze (like in the woods fly fishing in NC) the lenses can fog up on hot humid days here in the NC mountains. If I slip the glasses down my nose a fraction of in inch, they clear up.<br />
- I stepped on them one day and it cost $100 to replace the broken lens.<br />
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I hope this helps if you are thinking about buying a pair. I am convinced that the 580 lens is the best fishing lens out there. Worth $260? Thats up to you to decide.<br />
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<br />Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14930840753825326104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1699412933877590380.post-43070838617173365352013-08-16T17:42:00.000-07:002013-08-16T19:13:52.658-07:00Red Spread<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigxESVW_MIwjtPylB4HOu2Jd6qlq3mGVOkSje2VBOABGqw9fz8Z-84au-WK0gfjsEfCIR69Emqb5e2KRLVgp_P6MhvmKCRjKqaYQaCjLX2Dg1-Vj1SkfTw_0ttm8pk-nGhCUk0YkUWx4w/s1600/IMG_4251.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigxESVW_MIwjtPylB4HOu2Jd6qlq3mGVOkSje2VBOABGqw9fz8Z-84au-WK0gfjsEfCIR69Emqb5e2KRLVgp_P6MhvmKCRjKqaYQaCjLX2Dg1-Vj1SkfTw_0ttm8pk-nGhCUk0YkUWx4w/s640/IMG_4251.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Deserted old flat bed in a North Carolina marsh flat</td></tr>
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Last Wednesday I was netting the 18 inch rainbow in Western North Carolina after one of the best fights I've encountered with a trout. This week, I really understood what kind of power a fish can put out while landing my first redfish on a fly on the other end of our great state. North Carolina is truly unbelievable. <br />
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Red Fish pull. Period. After at least 7 short outings in Charleston, I was surprised to land my first red on a North Carolina marsh flat where no one in the area seemed to talk about fishing flats, much less know anyone who fly fished. Essentially, most of this experienced played out far different than I ever imagined, while other parts where spot on. I knew I had two limited chances to chase reds on our family vacation, and my first outing was mostly wandering through the marsh trying to figure out where to concentrate my efforts. It turned out to be super windy at this 5.0 high tide, and when a found a tailing red, I blew two cast in the wind, had two decent casts, then had a third cast wrap around spartina grass right on top of the tailer. Fail.<br />
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The following day seemed to be to much of a Drake article set up to expect to catch a fish. A last-chance-for-who-knows-how-long kind of scenario. Here is a list of ways it went <i>different </i>than I had invisioned while day dreaming about red fish. <br />
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1. Red fish fight way harder then any one has ever told me. Way harder. Stinkin' awesome.<br />
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2. I was convinced all the waked and fin tips I was seeing on this day were mullet, and didn't even cast at them until this guy ate my fly. The fins looked gray, not orange. I think the cloud cover kept the fins from lighting up "red."Later I realized all the "mullet" I let swim through the trough I was watching were all decent sized reds.<br />
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3. I didn't see a single tailing fish. Saw some fins pushing through the shallow trough to get into the flat, but no tailors.<br />
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4. I lead a wake with a good fly, and strip directly back to me when I got the eat.<br />
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5. I don't even remember thinking about the hook set. I just happened.<br />
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6. If it took me four minutes to land the fish, than three minutes and 50 seconds were spent wondering if it was a red fish. Some one had told me bonnet sharks can get in the flat and chase bait, and I was thinking it was probably a bonnet. When it was at my feet, I finally realized I had caught a good red fish.<br />
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7. I didn't get any epic pics of my first red fish. Standing knee deep in a marsh, no dry land near by, with an i-phone, fish, and fly rod in hand is the equivalent of texting and flossing while driving a stick shift; it's awkward and you need another arm or two.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">thought i had the whole fish in the frame</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful spot tail (way out of focus)</td></tr>
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Some other things went as hoped, invisioned, and planned.<br />
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1. My cyber scouting with google maps was great. FOund access and flats from satellites.<br />
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2. I had always wanted to take my first red on a more traditional pattern, and not a spoon fly. After some calls, I decided to go with a copper head variant. Got 'em.<br />
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3. The tide was supposed to be around 5.5 on this day, which should lead to more fish in the flat, and it did. They cam piling through about 45 minutes before high tide (i just thought they were big mullet).<br />
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4. Without the wind from the day before, I was able to watch for wakes in the smooth water much better, and here crashing and splashing in the spartina grass far easier.<br />
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5. I caught one in the bottom of the 9th. Thats how it happens in the story books, and thats how it happened this time. It had been 2 years since my last shot, and I hoped that would have been a walk off home run situation. But I left empty handed after four attempts int he Charleston marsh.<br />
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I think my carp fishing earlier this summer helped with my presentation for reds, but red fight way harder than carp. The tug is the drug, and reds pull hard and fast. I walked out of the spartina that day a little early. There was an impending storm, but even with the chance of catching more, my first red had me walking light and grinnin' like a fool. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">sunset over the inter coastal waterway</td></tr>
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<br />Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14930840753825326104noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1699412933877590380.post-61560314545094603432013-08-02T19:55:00.001-07:002013-08-02T19:55:49.907-07:00Summer Trout, Summer Not.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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On the second annual classic trails-to-trout trip. Matt Sloan and I were equally unsuccessful at "slayin' 'em." Late last July we ventured into the bowels of Pisgah Forrest to find unpressured trout heaven. We wound up with a great memory, good times by a camp fire, and a few puny trout. Late July and August may be one of the toughest times to trout fish in the south, even above 3,000 feet in elevation. Low, warm water inevitably leads to stressed, spooky fish. With all the rain this summer, water levels are up and water temps are down. I hoped our late July trip would fish more like early June.<br />
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We didn't venture as far off the beaten path this time, but the conditions seemed perfect. Good flows, water temps below 60, and we never saw another fisherman on the river or walking by our campsite. Results... dink city. We caught a few tiny rainbows. I hooked and didn't land one MONSTER of a 12 incher. He did have a super wide red strip on his side though. Beautiful.<br />
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I've officially blamed the poor fishing on the full moon. "Dem fishes had full bellies from the nocturnal night light of Mr. MoonFace and the Stone Fly Buffet," I told myself and Matt. Speculation (However, let it be known, if I ever have a bluegrass band, we will be called Mr. MoonFace and the Stonfely Buffet). It was pretty scenery, better company, and a great time in the woods. The fishing was marginal. North Carolina dog days just seem tough on trout.<br />
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However, the fishing is about to be on fire out West (no morbid wildfire pun intended). Hopper time. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">August Rainbow on the Fraser River in Colorado</td></tr>
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<br />Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14930840753825326104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1699412933877590380.post-16038454697774518772013-07-15T17:41:00.004-07:002013-08-02T19:56:30.628-07:00Carp Vid from the Local (Big Cicada Dry Flies)<div style="text-align: center;">
This short was stolen from <a href="http://www.southerncultureonthefly.com/" target="_blank">S.C.O.F</a>.'s latest release. Ryan of Bent Rod Media frequents the local and does a stellar job fishing and making videos.</div>
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="600" mozallowfullscreen="" src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/69860747" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="800"></iframe>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14930840753825326104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1699412933877590380.post-68282967203928334182013-07-13T12:49:00.000-07:002013-08-02T19:57:01.401-07:00All Gold Err'thang (carp)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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After probably 15 outings and more than years worth of moons, I finally <i>intentionally</i> landed a carp on the fly (This excludes the carp I unintentionally landed on a squirmy wormy on the "dream stream" section of the S. Platte pictured in my blog's background. It was my first fish on the "dream stream" which felt like a dream at first tug, and more like a scene from a hypnotist's comedy routine once I realized my twenty inch trout was a stinking carp). One change of locations completely changed my luck. Same lake, but a different spot than I had visited the last 12 times. It only took two trips, totaling 3 hours cumulatively, two put my first two carp-on-the-fly on the board with a blue channel cat to boot. The first location that I thrashed for the previous 14 months held carp, but required wading super skinny water, which inevitably lead to spooked carp, which shut down the hole with pheromone alerts. I hooked two in the old mud flat, with one spit hook and <a href="http://bowsandbrowns.blogspot.com/2012/08/stuck-carp.html" target="_blank">one broken hook</a>.<br />
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The new locale is boss. It allows me to walk manicured shoreline, all the while dodging copious amounts of goose excrement, for about a quarter of a mile without ever seriously spooking fish. Aside from never disturbing the water with my feet, I stand 2 feet above the water instead of knee deep in the water, giving me better perspective for sight fishing. My first common was small, but my second was a slimey five pounds that put a good bend in the 7 weight. I'm stoked to have a honey hole 15 minutes from the house for a quick trip to scratch my itch when I can't haul it up to the mountains for troots. I don't always fish, but when I do I prefer trout...nonetheless, count me in for carp.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihRKlS0AtGOFz6SSd_CCgB6CPgzB51i6Lspl2aXrWgNjQvi-FDU2JR8cXPhzOtgvEINjO9E1zseVEcdSegwKKrMn95ENeukOFYX7e27hkoGX9hXn_qh6wFucjSWIsZDF5Z1F1rwvabuWE/s1600/IMG_3898.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihRKlS0AtGOFz6SSd_CCgB6CPgzB51i6Lspl2aXrWgNjQvi-FDU2JR8cXPhzOtgvEINjO9E1zseVEcdSegwKKrMn95ENeukOFYX7e27hkoGX9hXn_qh6wFucjSWIsZDF5Z1F1rwvabuWE/s640/IMG_3898.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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I caught three more this week. Here are some more pics.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLR8RED5wTs5kWRYYlfVLOa-iPINgLanaafBqSc1C6RoRABH9Gqep-G359g4xl6zDki0-6qbivLTV_YW45IN7MAb4uhYYxxArD3aaSbMQFEyK1aGzyLnRyV-tManQoP87WUPpih3R3114/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLR8RED5wTs5kWRYYlfVLOa-iPINgLanaafBqSc1C6RoRABH9Gqep-G359g4xl6zDki0-6qbivLTV_YW45IN7MAb4uhYYxxArD3aaSbMQFEyK1aGzyLnRyV-tManQoP87WUPpih3R3114/s400/photo.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUBECOXMhtZTpSKejLV1dWo0oOu2ej71FDF0OkpeI8UmmyYtn-8yCcnG92a5Xocn8KEq41X0kWNYG4sH_-GwLvmuB_rSeaY07bBwJ1iCDMjbNm8-ZpYGZHvS3Mz2rlGdKaN3xjosmReYc/s1600/carp.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUBECOXMhtZTpSKejLV1dWo0oOu2ej71FDF0OkpeI8UmmyYtn-8yCcnG92a5Xocn8KEq41X0kWNYG4sH_-GwLvmuB_rSeaY07bBwJ1iCDMjbNm8-ZpYGZHvS3Mz2rlGdKaN3xjosmReYc/s400/carp.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14930840753825326104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1699412933877590380.post-86986261190533216132013-06-20T19:28:00.000-07:002013-08-02T19:57:40.036-07:00Big Fish, Big Bugs, North Georgia<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvP7M2ZnaQRZ26QwvmR1pjarDI-a-0bZ0ztt37RCny4MYFdiHaJv3WdcTrj0mIGiDSU525Bv0BNXgACQbajA7f-x7msxFV4__xp0GRvr6OE2p89HKswjNnmzbAfxNGtOsVszo2H3qNn-I/s1600/IMG_3805.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvP7M2ZnaQRZ26QwvmR1pjarDI-a-0bZ0ztt37RCny4MYFdiHaJv3WdcTrj0mIGiDSU525Bv0BNXgACQbajA7f-x7msxFV4__xp0GRvr6OE2p89HKswjNnmzbAfxNGtOsVszo2H3qNn-I/s640/IMG_3805.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Green Drake, N. Georgia in June</td></tr>
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My blog post are about as frequent as my Green Drake sightings. I was fortunate to fish a green drake hatch on the Nantahala 2 years ago, but my closest experience with an actual specimen was during a Tuesday night Hee Haw style hoe down in Georgia the second week of June this summer.<br />
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I had the privilege of spending 3 weeks near Jasper Georgia from May 24 to June 16, and the little creek running through the property there didn't disappoint. I probably only had a total of 3 hours on the water in my three weeks there, but every night I was given a free entomology class walking to and from events on the property as bugs would show themselves from dusk on.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEGSBaihanY9b4u2ynBORchNZliyY0ZaakPqQjdWSdDCrF64P16f6ipt14hzUqkkA6B6aBSQ8u4pgXpqght8h4vNU0IfTyHxKahiPvGrg2CyugaRoTjGF4SBf2ZrOlnsIVTliajA0bnQo/s1600/IMG_3722.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEGSBaihanY9b4u2ynBORchNZliyY0ZaakPqQjdWSdDCrF64P16f6ipt14hzUqkkA6B6aBSQ8u4pgXpqght8h4vNU0IfTyHxKahiPvGrg2CyugaRoTjGF4SBf2ZrOlnsIVTliajA0bnQo/s400/IMG_3722.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sulpher Mayfly</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI7WGHsYS8uTsXFONZNh0GdzkQt-_EHZnauzbLCPc9WQL5CHMFFlj4dwumrwhGi8t8-AUAcpEjM7FhiKvjtUqtXxyO_ZnNqEAKLbjHKCH4sK-lR2IWsfH8VDU6rVd3iysEU4KxMoNleHo/s1600/IMG_3771.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI7WGHsYS8uTsXFONZNh0GdzkQt-_EHZnauzbLCPc9WQL5CHMFFlj4dwumrwhGi8t8-AUAcpEjM7FhiKvjtUqtXxyO_ZnNqEAKLbjHKCH4sK-lR2IWsfH8VDU6rVd3iysEU4KxMoNleHo/s320/IMG_3771.jpg" width="269" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little Yellow Sallie</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy8JAGcdahOpRe7xbXHsOyctkbTcMNrKsh0GQhSvpqutKfvOLmfGUTdmTuHp4dXqNuknjlAP-PHvH4p7OwPiB6yhkm53c2lehdtRVBOtdzkzSEthvtg-UcwnnUwEbOO9wYmu4wkRIvozo/s1600/IMG_3790.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy8JAGcdahOpRe7xbXHsOyctkbTcMNrKsh0GQhSvpqutKfvOLmfGUTdmTuHp4dXqNuknjlAP-PHvH4p7OwPiB6yhkm53c2lehdtRVBOtdzkzSEthvtg-UcwnnUwEbOO9wYmu4wkRIvozo/s400/IMG_3790.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Goldne Stone</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ5wJhxhWFbfZaCtdP7z_L3N_exJI-bsoqUV-XcsUUufy7N3uqwa_MNDG9pLn8Rt-2aanG-PJk1_VzZaHe9tOFb97XWUpxusBYJl7_aew_ZIUq17hHVsubIJsrFG2NyU9maCljbxk1t2c/s1600/IMG_3795.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ5wJhxhWFbfZaCtdP7z_L3N_exJI-bsoqUV-XcsUUufy7N3uqwa_MNDG9pLn8Rt-2aanG-PJk1_VzZaHe9tOFb97XWUpxusBYJl7_aew_ZIUq17hHVsubIJsrFG2NyU9maCljbxk1t2c/s400/IMG_3795.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Goldne Stones and a Caddis</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFTud_cUKBSx85BUrhkOOtZY1JBsldnFmGkqLPB_XQ4zgIy7rjSl80ZabCLMMB1GxsqO2G-_u8Bxxw70DsDyQ6JeMKMI3Xq8tSZoATP2RkboFqCdv419cj_7wCCGG6jSE8AwzNChcfaB4/s1600/IMG_3851.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="436" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFTud_cUKBSx85BUrhkOOtZY1JBsldnFmGkqLPB_XQ4zgIy7rjSl80ZabCLMMB1GxsqO2G-_u8Bxxw70DsDyQ6JeMKMI3Xq8tSZoATP2RkboFqCdv419cj_7wCCGG6jSE8AwzNChcfaB4/s640/IMG_3851.PNG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Green Drake</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVAxEcil3jRq8JkmMf48xZBk5ktnZxx7caKsTR7wqe3QJvgm4Kte-2tuVbEcjHpM-lJOAmaV2JX5Mv9o1ypFf-9UMly5kEZk-_Nhx1OPIq32HYMndQElmjEjNH9z-zZEG8q0NABcFvwgg/s1600/IMG_3807.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVAxEcil3jRq8JkmMf48xZBk5ktnZxx7caKsTR7wqe3QJvgm4Kte-2tuVbEcjHpM-lJOAmaV2JX5Mv9o1ypFf-9UMly5kEZk-_Nhx1OPIq32HYMndQElmjEjNH9z-zZEG8q0NABcFvwgg/s400/IMG_3807.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Huge Green Drake</td></tr>
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The fishing wasn't too bad either.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlKg4CNjRt7Lw2CAvEiJxprJtptURez2rPTDbHxk_6IY32_L0cfNmQqA9kEoRABJrNnx4ZoekYNgy7F_7WOVjU-pI0EEWW-1t93LueHoUNzX6A-o30bj4rWloF5vU7TlwDZCjWipPuGUA/s1600/IMG_3732.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlKg4CNjRt7Lw2CAvEiJxprJtptURez2rPTDbHxk_6IY32_L0cfNmQqA9kEoRABJrNnx4ZoekYNgy7F_7WOVjU-pI0EEWW-1t93LueHoUNzX6A-o30bj4rWloF5vU7TlwDZCjWipPuGUA/s400/IMG_3732.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCQSfy1yEbTL4q-iOmCCFjjkTOCoxnYsoG-DntnvLwZ7JA4fQoi9Yz1ltlzb2RJXgHDT6ANtGoaxFYE-t4mCW3NJPXSIrZUbDIZMeaSuG4989CUfIr8Sw6xoZygSJZrN1WaV9AZarQBXk/s1600/IMG_3733.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCQSfy1yEbTL4q-iOmCCFjjkTOCoxnYsoG-DntnvLwZ7JA4fQoi9Yz1ltlzb2RJXgHDT6ANtGoaxFYE-t4mCW3NJPXSIrZUbDIZMeaSuG4989CUfIr8Sw6xoZygSJZrN1WaV9AZarQBXk/s400/IMG_3733.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX17mtgDVSZDccwEC4aN8VfZ5ODqIWfkmjgD4Ob8GijPwbWKYv3V39gNrJeMVHS8E7eMwtsCqwR1LCyo13jlylLQa08VgGcqwEN5L6hTd_WxeL1w3yNmKRfSgDQZIOattIt-daQB4TVAA/s1600/IMG_3734.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX17mtgDVSZDccwEC4aN8VfZ5ODqIWfkmjgD4Ob8GijPwbWKYv3V39gNrJeMVHS8E7eMwtsCqwR1LCyo13jlylLQa08VgGcqwEN5L6hTd_WxeL1w3yNmKRfSgDQZIOattIt-daQB4TVAA/s640/IMG_3734.JPG" width="476" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQb3gCosmxGxIvSVPKuy25JXXooB8b6y-tS1WJH0Eb_tx5OaJoA4rz3OsR9VaSEetUDAxv2aaG4Faq12YbwFp0hO1b6hsVJxYc_faBGxNh_3YAUzoJSzkjCKAqSGwLSmBPnh8o5vcmTHU/s1600/IMG_3768.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQb3gCosmxGxIvSVPKuy25JXXooB8b6y-tS1WJH0Eb_tx5OaJoA4rz3OsR9VaSEetUDAxv2aaG4Faq12YbwFp0hO1b6hsVJxYc_faBGxNh_3YAUzoJSzkjCKAqSGwLSmBPnh8o5vcmTHU/s640/IMG_3768.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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I think the bigger guys were hold over stockers from the lake below, but I'll take a surprise 16 plus inch trout in Georgia any time. I was still real surprised to find wild fish in the 12 inch range in the tiny creek. Stimulators took them on top, and Kevin's Stonefly for the big boys underneath. Blessed. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Hoe Down That The Green Drake Crashed</td></tr>
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<br />Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14930840753825326104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1699412933877590380.post-54089707895569468812013-04-25T18:44:00.003-07:002013-04-25T18:44:54.258-07:00Carp PIc Shout OutThis was one of the coolest pics i've seen on the interwebbs lately. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_WZv-ExdkRP2B7tt3VmX-Zp9md4sG_n4WzyoBHlQ1aO9_PGARg2eMD2vBnheeBgtgXg9AZDxgUCYDTS-lMogaDoMrAkYdJTaB4rU7y2h4ZA38kp4_pFb6ZWgdEI-GyEhFX1btXlH_sB0/s1600/scales.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_WZv-ExdkRP2B7tt3VmX-Zp9md4sG_n4WzyoBHlQ1aO9_PGARg2eMD2vBnheeBgtgXg9AZDxgUCYDTS-lMogaDoMrAkYdJTaB4rU7y2h4ZA38kp4_pFb6ZWgdEI-GyEhFX1btXlH_sB0/s640/scales.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Carp scales stolen from <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpubUQGWmY0HuJgCoUIclqS1mqpr0zQdsXyvO2JDN2gklBv_nXlX-pm6fPBlCAYmO0wpLYCJDVBv-Ak_NyAFhPa5JWm5B3m0Dt63UEXZJB7vuYBnhgmdv7t_ASiqOmA5tqfd7xSRMfv4M/s1600/scales.jpg" target="_blank">Yukon Goes Fishing</a>.<br />
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I messed with some carp for about 45 minutes the other day. I'm still 0-fer. Soon another will impale himself on my fly again, but this time my hook won't break at the bend.<br />
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<br />Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14930840753825326104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1699412933877590380.post-79395767891870558882013-02-19T19:20:00.001-08:002013-08-25T17:41:26.935-07:00Yucatan Flats on the Fly - Pesca Maya Review<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8pRwfOjRZPHhyphenhyphenAAMmzvtGZAHK-N1Yvqy4o8LutkwWHm1quFGpXdjkl0fXTYvK0l5qhpvXyL3tt7F2MV9BNsqlKx-EZVmrUIvy12xAyyiTPgSlyeRmxJYwTZrAN0BTx2Ktd-6EY4Y1i4s/s1600/IMG_0289.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8pRwfOjRZPHhyphenhyphenAAMmzvtGZAHK-N1Yvqy4o8LutkwWHm1quFGpXdjkl0fXTYvK0l5qhpvXyL3tt7F2MV9BNsqlKx-EZVmrUIvy12xAyyiTPgSlyeRmxJYwTZrAN0BTx2Ktd-6EY4Y1i4s/s640/IMG_0289.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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The Yucatan peninsula seems to be founded on a slab of chalky stone, and after an hour of being jostled down a Mexican jungle dirt road in a van full of strangers, local radio station playing seemingly the same song on repeat, one's mind begins to short circuit and confuse the chalky dust covering the road side vegetation as fake snow applied from an aerosol can. It can turn twighlight zone real quick in the Mexican backcountry. The van ride that started in the 5:30 am darkness ends on a strip of Caribbean wilderness no wider than a 100 yards with the sea to the East and Ascension Bay to the West. <a href="http://www.pescamaya.com/" target="_blank">Pesca Maya</a> fishing lodge is an unglamorous lodge perched on a remote strip of jungle in the middle of paradise.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho0YT7O4DEti8eCkI36dGsJRZx7kjAw0i8-1jYN-xBYKAmvxG3sKT2M3IABgfy_YIHfJy6v8ckjrjhbalcRAvQx50g5fGO6Z6IMpg2ZicQHx5k0B2ABAo-mSrNmrKMBjuPLdaU7yIdPzU/s1600/IMG_0339.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho0YT7O4DEti8eCkI36dGsJRZx7kjAw0i8-1jYN-xBYKAmvxG3sKT2M3IABgfy_YIHfJy6v8ckjrjhbalcRAvQx50g5fGO6Z6IMpg2ZicQHx5k0B2ABAo-mSrNmrKMBjuPLdaU7yIdPzU/s400/IMG_0339.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Front porch of the Pesca Maya Ascension Bay Fishing Lodge</td></tr>
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I've spent a lot of money to cast a fly towards bonefish on the picturesque flats of Ascension Bay, and the flavor of the lodge seems to screams "Mexico" more than "moeny well spent." During a breakfast of pancakes, scrambled eggs chunked with diced ham, and coffee I'm introduced to my guide, Wilberth. Moments later, we are walking down one of two sandy tire ruts that leads to my first tropical flats fly fishing excursion.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0QLB2vddcYKMdMAGRm_hiwQqywvjNkTThP-y7hGr8x5WEz2wbDEQ0cq8iZmUlPqzk9hhm-101cj8CbOeKOGJkeh1zsX9r9p4UYdASuSJFFCClrJBIdWJLlAp2PPyP1MAd6llNvetPe-A/s1600/IMG_0282.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0QLB2vddcYKMdMAGRm_hiwQqywvjNkTThP-y7hGr8x5WEz2wbDEQ0cq8iZmUlPqzk9hhm-101cj8CbOeKOGJkeh1zsX9r9p4UYdASuSJFFCClrJBIdWJLlAp2PPyP1MAd6llNvetPe-A/s320/IMG_0282.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">road to dock</td></tr>
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Less than 5 minutes later, Wilberth has the motor on the mexican panga whining, and 10 minutes after that, Wilberth's assistant Angel hands me a 9 wt. Sage with a right-hand set up Hatch reel and I step up on the platform, tucked close enough to the mangroves to shelter us from the 25 mph winds.. Nearly an hour passes and we have only seen mullet and barracudas. I begin to question if I shelled out way too many bones to chase fish. We finally corner an nice sized snook under some mangrove roots, and part after Wilbert and Angel throw ice from the cooler at the fish in attempts to move him out from under his cover. Wilbert signals we are changing locations, and I hope that the fact we havn't seen nary a bonefish and have already resorted to "jumping" snook out of the bushes with cooler ice doesn't foreshadow the rest of the days activities.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo3QblUCzD1K1jKbEA735cJCGaWBzn7jG3awn1yp_5RhWNFb7877JLVXcD-7_fPzS1pmzob1ySjDQH8uD3QNEqfn_nPtVpsjik_oOfj1GCnE5EqHKfYQefqJ2NFYsNjZtKDkdere2hgj4/s1600/IMG_0299.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo3QblUCzD1K1jKbEA735cJCGaWBzn7jG3awn1yp_5RhWNFb7877JLVXcD-7_fPzS1pmzob1ySjDQH8uD3QNEqfn_nPtVpsjik_oOfj1GCnE5EqHKfYQefqJ2NFYsNjZtKDkdere2hgj4/s400/IMG_0299.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wilberth taking us to new water</td></tr>
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Not only is the new location more picturesque, we start seeing fish. In the next 2 hours I land my first two bonefish, miss my first two bonefish, and cast to 4 permit and 1 baby tarpon. The skunk was off, and I was crazy stoked to see permit, much less cast to 4 and get a follow. Lunch on the boat was great, and afterwards, the fishing only got better.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAP1RrTIxMUrOjBddcJDhCCkBOQ9oz_zOT3dCxN5rU_-kQXSkVlWy5lmrgaGx3VVZza9fCgDrwtcp6hX4f4j8HgmTrTL8ewV2VFTtZnQSrCcVqlay0s9EB5ul7LMM_hKA8mz6AXUGY1eY/s1600/IMG_0302.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAP1RrTIxMUrOjBddcJDhCCkBOQ9oz_zOT3dCxN5rU_-kQXSkVlWy5lmrgaGx3VVZza9fCgDrwtcp6hX4f4j8HgmTrTL8ewV2VFTtZnQSrCcVqlay0s9EB5ul7LMM_hKA8mz6AXUGY1eY/s640/IMG_0302.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My first bonefish in the boat</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6o7NzUpAxDq6Y0jMjB3zoYmU4AMefGmmelKPN9WDgHbIgg9IlBLGaG-1acE7wTIS8U-9cN0EDPKnQK2c2ojjYyCVxxUbaJgrH8FFZ4VNjqxHnH3kbxG22jHQxAN8nz7A53YntFqXXlHs/s1600/IMG_0310.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6o7NzUpAxDq6Y0jMjB3zoYmU4AMefGmmelKPN9WDgHbIgg9IlBLGaG-1acE7wTIS8U-9cN0EDPKnQK2c2ojjYyCVxxUbaJgrH8FFZ4VNjqxHnH3kbxG22jHQxAN8nz7A53YntFqXXlHs/s400/IMG_0310.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Angel with my second, and smallest bonefish of the day</td></tr>
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I can't say enough about <a href="http://www.facebook.com/wilberth.xec?fref=ts" target="_blank">Wilberth Xec.</a> Not only could did he pole a panga with 3 people in 25 mph winds all day, he gave me an opportunity for a grand slam on my first trip in those rough conditions. The end of the day saw seven bone fish landed, with a handful of jacks, a blue runner, and cuda to boot. I only hooked myself in the back once. Angel helped to manage my line on the deck, and Wilberth's ability to spot fish and coach me on strips and hook sets was great. He english was some of the best I heard from any native while in Mexico, and his knowledge of the fishery and techniques were spot on . I highly recommend Wilberth if you ever choose to set up a trip through Pesca Maya.<br />
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The location was remote and gorgeous. My guide worked hard, was professional, and put me on fish in tough conditions. It wasn't cheap, but I got picked up from my hotel by Pesca Maya, fed breakfast, and caught fish on my first attempt on bonefish. If I had a bucket list, this would have been on it and happily scratched off at the end of the day.<br />
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Here are some more pics from the trip.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU8MXKCmLvC2MApCLwhSyXsTKXSv0649-ijqckaFpKq0rQG_04HawS1HEjE8uLMKw8-pa-tDMObZJJ6FPtNBzqKqY8xJm9VZtZJ3-tYfIibd1xbOpIiduXWjSsVVVtrnSDVhLno1YEGr4/s1600/IMG_0307.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU8MXKCmLvC2MApCLwhSyXsTKXSv0649-ijqckaFpKq0rQG_04HawS1HEjE8uLMKw8-pa-tDMObZJJ6FPtNBzqKqY8xJm9VZtZJ3-tYfIibd1xbOpIiduXWjSsVVVtrnSDVhLno1YEGr4/s640/IMG_0307.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wilberth Xec, Pesca Maya Guide</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Front porch of the lodge</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ocean view from the lodge</td></tr>
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<br />Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14930840753825326104noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1699412933877590380.post-87531710556821096322013-01-14T19:15:00.003-08:002013-01-14T19:15:43.054-08:00Yucatan. Bone, Bone, Bone...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOoV3RxEy_BIPl6O-QBadiBZRtdE8-cvONFncHofnV5YNUCVd-VxV39MZoDNHV3y1zGpcqrU0qASfbBnAiZchu8s_0rNAc68apraZ5go1Tp5iTRIfslgvHqMyogt3VuRU2yj3k40a6P3Y/s1600/ascension-bay-banner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOoV3RxEy_BIPl6O-QBadiBZRtdE8-cvONFncHofnV5YNUCVd-VxV39MZoDNHV3y1zGpcqrU0qASfbBnAiZchu8s_0rNAc68apraZ5go1Tp5iTRIfslgvHqMyogt3VuRU2yj3k40a6P3Y/s640/ascension-bay-banner.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ascension Bay, Yucatan Peninsula Mexico</td></tr>
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Bone Thugs in harmony always annoyed me. Wrapping about "the first of the month, so cash your checks and come one." Braggin' about welfare. The Brits call it "the dole." Now, I find myself on the dole for a family trip to the Mayan Riviera in February courtesy of my generous in-laws. Welfare and bones will come clashing together now, and I'll <i>only</i> have to shell out bones for a <i>bone fish</i> day trip since other expenses will be covered via the dole. The Bone Thugs just moved up to the top of my list. We're relating.<br />
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I have a decision to make, and I would love any help you can offer. I can travel to Cozumel by ferry to a relatively unsought after flats fishery and save about $150 for guide fees, or I can make the two plus hour trip south to the famed Ascension Bay. Will Cozumel have less pressure and be healthily of the radar, or is Ascension Bay on the radar cause its just plain sick and ripe for flats fishing. Right now I'm leaning towards the bay off of its rep and more professional services. But I will pay more. Anybody have any advice for me from prior experience? Hit me with it.<br />
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Google earth shots of my options below.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpLiTHDpdjGtmW-4dB8herSPPVlsjOz8Z_8EdbTGo8DCNgJ_Br-kaXtObI3apfx6l3xVX4Hbbj2Cxt_hQJr8Db2f16i0As-gmu5XVwoW1UFTDtKFwmg0kweG-2VWGn-Ylg4fgaMbEBaxk/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-01-14+at+10.05.59+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpLiTHDpdjGtmW-4dB8herSPPVlsjOz8Z_8EdbTGo8DCNgJ_Br-kaXtObI3apfx6l3xVX4Hbbj2Cxt_hQJr8Db2f16i0As-gmu5XVwoW1UFTDtKFwmg0kweG-2VWGn-Ylg4fgaMbEBaxk/s400/Screen+Shot+2013-01-14+at+10.05.59+PM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cozumel flats</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo233mLrViqx-bft-jjsMVM6FdHncTkgbIDcPh-5UU23gCSQKW1m18WS01Oyv9Qn-eGI13qIl2t1m9IjzEHRZ8rOezJCIgGaH5HXabMd9_1X5BN1RYce9RmVGNvhVAkDuxpvASWKZg_Bo/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-01-14+at+10.07.18+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="335" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo233mLrViqx-bft-jjsMVM6FdHncTkgbIDcPh-5UU23gCSQKW1m18WS01Oyv9Qn-eGI13qIl2t1m9IjzEHRZ8rOezJCIgGaH5HXabMd9_1X5BN1RYce9RmVGNvhVAkDuxpvASWKZg_Bo/s400/Screen+Shot+2013-01-14+at+10.07.18+PM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ascension Bay flats</td></tr>
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<br />Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14930840753825326104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1699412933877590380.post-2610578657983451152013-01-03T18:33:00.000-08:002013-08-02T19:59:35.316-07:00Trout Wanted...Only large Browns Need ApplyI don't like eggs. Unless, said eggs are in a quiche, my special recipe chorizo breakfast burrito's, or brownie batter. Today was all about eggs in brownies on the Davidson. The Dirty D and it was done dirt cheap.<br />
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This first bruiser was the second fish to take the veiled apricot egg in the first 5 minutes, but was the first to hand.<br />
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These fellows followed.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkYe3yxJk-9Rcfw-zRP-JwGui3grfkhq-kAG6h5Spf0RacDPiOZrxT_yFyPGrfIu6kVqSgNBn_yAWrpya3QrVc05KnGhH3oWcuVWLkE6SIwQyZ5yASyIsAThbWAZD6sJ2K5rlEVki-_eA/s1600/IMG_0113.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkYe3yxJk-9Rcfw-zRP-JwGui3grfkhq-kAG6h5Spf0RacDPiOZrxT_yFyPGrfIu6kVqSgNBn_yAWrpya3QrVc05KnGhH3oWcuVWLkE6SIwQyZ5yASyIsAThbWAZD6sJ2K5rlEVki-_eA/s400/IMG_0113.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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This was my first outing in over three months, and I was all smiles. A nice rainbow similar in size to the fish above was the other big fish of the day, and a half dozen or so others made for a great 5 hours on the water. The river was flowing at 100 cfs and it was overcast and in the 30's. My buddy heath sweetened the deal by tuning up my reel while on the water. <br />
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I noted 2 distinct changes in my fishing after my second child was born. One, my high sticking fitness level has plummeted. I left with a fiercely burning right shoulder. Two, I don't always sing on the water, but when I do, it's a great tune from the likes of some super cool band (s<i>tay thirsty my friends</i>). Today however, the words that softly spilled from my mouth were the lyrics from "Go, Diego Go!" Lame. Maybe its so lame, I could convince someone I'm uber hipster for singing it. Doubtful. I found myself singing it at least twice. I love my kids like crazy, but not the Diego theme song. Here are a couple of other pics.<br />
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<br />Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14930840753825326104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1699412933877590380.post-87578564372092016732012-12-30T16:45:00.001-08:002012-12-30T16:45:55.728-08:00Foxy Red<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLh1-QXosWn3YduNNHbnPDrlcggLsU2_plJoUBG4bFfOsre4WyeDHSTqz_w_pJziE3jiY7zB7KLUgroBCGKlfttbiBfl10kGO8tPebYyt8MIz-VAn37lfYVg7uYG5-2lX6bnxpcSd61t4/s1600/photo-22.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLh1-QXosWn3YduNNHbnPDrlcggLsU2_plJoUBG4bFfOsre4WyeDHSTqz_w_pJziE3jiY7zB7KLUgroBCGKlfttbiBfl10kGO8tPebYyt8MIz-VAn37lfYVg7uYG5-2lX6bnxpcSd61t4/s400/photo-22.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Road kill fox, recycled to a Foxy Red Minnow, used to lure an 18 inch rainbow to hand.</span></td></tr>
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The fish above is from my last outing... in October. My second child, and first son, was born Sept. 28 this year; Mills Joshua Jones. Named in part after a river that always entices me here in WNC. Needless to say, the fam takes precedence over leisure, and my 3 month old and 20 month old aren't ready to learn how to high stick or tie a surgeons knot yet. I do plan on fishing this week, and if time allows, post an entry. </div>
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See ya in the funny pages. </div>
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Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14930840753825326104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1699412933877590380.post-82596730596864318682012-09-15T06:54:00.000-07:002013-08-02T20:00:00.719-07:00Prose: Mid-Afternoon Crickets<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBMToGqPHrpsvEBmU5b8v6yeu08eMUkJ_glLuOcLcgu9dnoBLcw0l5pFp1XGl4lOaPOlNIXFVD9KZHvUH8H0q2_HyDtxHhyphenhyphenyrY9kK2K6I1zP2NbxALjNZ2CYc0FMJy1kZcv9EQMwar0LU/s1600/photo-21.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBMToGqPHrpsvEBmU5b8v6yeu08eMUkJ_glLuOcLcgu9dnoBLcw0l5pFp1XGl4lOaPOlNIXFVD9KZHvUH8H0q2_HyDtxHhyphenhyphenyrY9kK2K6I1zP2NbxALjNZ2CYc0FMJy1kZcv9EQMwar0LU/s640/photo-21.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A took a nice wild brown that slipped out of the net in my old stomping ground of Appalachian State last Sunday morning. It ate an October caddis pupa. It was a reminiscent trip a day after I wrote the reminiscent lines below.</td></tr>
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Two years ago I took my first sip of muscadine wine and I
was instantly transported to the row of large leafed grape vines that stood
between my grandfather’s garden and wooded, weathered tool shed. Today, the staccato
clicks of grasshoppers overpower the subtle mid-afternoon chirps of crickets,
and I am returned to a long sandy section of gravel driveway from my childhood.
This portion of road parted two hayfields, and I would walk its half mile
length from the bus to my house in elementary school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Grass and dandelions separated the left tire
worn path from the right, and I ofen drifted towards the deeper, softer sand of
the left side of the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I would
draw closer to the edge of the woods, where the road steeply lifted through a
tunnel of pine and poplar, each of my small steps forward would send grasshoppers
flying from the sun warmed sand which had settled there after years of
runoff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They would disappear into
thousands of sparsely spaced, slender stalked, purple heads of fescue that
draped either side of the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
image of painted grass hoppers dispersing like water before the bow of my third
grade body is a clear one; but it’s the sound of those few crickets, chirping
not at night, but in full sun, that evokes emotions of the imminent change at
hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Summer dwindles, and the noisy
green of leaf and insect will soon give way to the gray silence of winter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At this part of the walk home I would have
already discarded the meaty remnants of the apple I pulled from a tree in the
heavy laden orchard a quarter of a mile back, and it’s sweetness would linger
like the blue haze that softened Mt. Pisgah’s distant silhouette over the
falling field to my left. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Nearly
30 years later, I sit shaded by birch and tulip poplars, pond side and fifty
miles from my childhood home in the mountains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Bass and bluegill regularly disturb the quite, as they snatch stray
grasshoppers from the still surface water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And there are crickets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can
hear them, mid-day chirping, beneath the birds, hopper clicks, and breeze. The
crickets call me to that dirt road, to a season, to God. These are the good
days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These are the dying days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My hope is in the Creator and Renewer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Have mercy on me, oh Lord.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Other Images from the Boone, NC Area</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBEeP_fr__A6gknQDdS7SimIhBdjXo6ikgYduPR_GDb15NW_3Pkhxu5dRdmDXWre7xY2xc_cIhpg-1iF7JTSGFmwrm9rOseA0OtvsfTdTs22OhfT5eWeUuAevUzTe2VeV6Oj7bKVx5280/s1600/IMG_1779.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBEeP_fr__A6gknQDdS7SimIhBdjXo6ikgYduPR_GDb15NW_3Pkhxu5dRdmDXWre7xY2xc_cIhpg-1iF7JTSGFmwrm9rOseA0OtvsfTdTs22OhfT5eWeUuAevUzTe2VeV6Oj7bKVx5280/s400/IMG_1779.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj8AnHax0tVqwdgONZW3urEhOf6nekqUmGiGVnq2TEPe1iMUqMvDy6rwhJSCbMWsVZZps9lRLz6nXE35astVtu7r7-6wMpS6-tDCD3Z3ibhTyvKnZ7Jujj4u5EaWnx2mPCAXfSIeRnYo8/s1600/IMG_1781.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj8AnHax0tVqwdgONZW3urEhOf6nekqUmGiGVnq2TEPe1iMUqMvDy6rwhJSCbMWsVZZps9lRLz6nXE35astVtu7r7-6wMpS6-tDCD3Z3ibhTyvKnZ7Jujj4u5EaWnx2mPCAXfSIeRnYo8/s400/IMG_1781.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14930840753825326104noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1699412933877590380.post-65269082928721086492012-08-19T18:35:00.001-07:002012-08-20T17:37:04.233-07:00Brown Trout for Me Bum<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I picked up a couple of uber girly bar stools at a yard sell for the back porch. They were your standard bar stools that had been painted and monogrammed pink, purple, and other various colors by two sisters for a debutant activity. I started sanding all the estrogen off the stools and turned them into trout themed deck decor.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Brown trout skin patterned stools.</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRpGAzwnbJ-Rd2-jcykoi0NvoW978MjxNmoTM_x4wWH2-CEJyEb2mtMrYmzP-Q6v-kMia9vgcAjYu40u03BcVs3MEpu4QAPi9VqwIk2cAnmj2WVwiyOUBdCE7Ta0ee7Ua5LejZe3QXXbM/s1600/IMG_1602.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRpGAzwnbJ-Rd2-jcykoi0NvoW978MjxNmoTM_x4wWH2-CEJyEb2mtMrYmzP-Q6v-kMia9vgcAjYu40u03BcVs3MEpu4QAPi9VqwIk2cAnmj2WVwiyOUBdCE7Ta0ee7Ua5LejZe3QXXbM/s400/IMG_1602.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">buttery brown fade base</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXzzmiwoxfod71qcuAsrxS8DJlcE8i1DHrvlonrs6tfAGFjtNpWasWJ8xd4oM1tzsmlJlMOvcEenSz4x7RxcLKuFyqtXoDjm6UQiFwvNNilS1zrWusPaJP0d73MVunsG3ATsNLJg3suL4/s1600/IMG_1603.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXzzmiwoxfod71qcuAsrxS8DJlcE8i1DHrvlonrs6tfAGFjtNpWasWJ8xd4oM1tzsmlJlMOvcEenSz4x7RxcLKuFyqtXoDjm6UQiFwvNNilS1zrWusPaJP0d73MVunsG3ATsNLJg3suL4/s320/IMG_1603.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">halo base coat</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl39WXu7CgByTHRhyphenhyphen6TJlqQqBbSU1HK4T-CclD2tVVs696NazPQm3nmz54b7yxtFYPSFomz1WDL7TpiScpndRMh5KNVcI4DUIrIIGdtBmNAYWXt5Ugi8p-MY8mzIya4k3sZDfyeVUHRI4/s1600/IMG_1606.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl39WXu7CgByTHRhyphenhyphen6TJlqQqBbSU1HK4T-CclD2tVVs696NazPQm3nmz54b7yxtFYPSFomz1WDL7TpiScpndRMh5KNVcI4DUIrIIGdtBmNAYWXt5Ugi8p-MY8mzIya4k3sZDfyeVUHRI4/s400/IMG_1606.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">spots</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhviCt5ZZiGxQ7cB2tpSng1U-VxibQct-GHSDoUZLNTPv3FPefn8_YrkgJonV32BdZVNbBGEFiTkqRUjU2T2k-Mi53SRc2z5rM8oCQWcrlbqWk61z4pWzeFkDl1jbfpxauTW2PbLCJbUSE/s1600/IMG_1607.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhviCt5ZZiGxQ7cB2tpSng1U-VxibQct-GHSDoUZLNTPv3FPefn8_YrkgJonV32BdZVNbBGEFiTkqRUjU2T2k-Mi53SRc2z5rM8oCQWcrlbqWk61z4pWzeFkDl1jbfpxauTW2PbLCJbUSE/s400/IMG_1607.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">black gloss legs on stool</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixfWmDDcPys6_hQYwjYpUYa9Fsm7mdjtjnjqdjZ0I7L1zP7ccwYdIIadyHULFbuudbUQDJ66jcAKrmj3MooJTEFyY8xr6B3km7HiUayxEBVhLXawSeiI7QbEFKL_SdHVpcvwM6uceOL9Q/s1600/IMG_1611.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixfWmDDcPys6_hQYwjYpUYa9Fsm7mdjtjnjqdjZ0I7L1zP7ccwYdIIadyHULFbuudbUQDJ66jcAKrmj3MooJTEFyY8xr6B3km7HiUayxEBVhLXawSeiI7QbEFKL_SdHVpcvwM6uceOL9Q/s320/IMG_1611.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmS4grp0mw6X2F9RsngiK_r9InBSa492-4btxrh1od3GAxITsY4Kdjg4Zj6qUJJ1uEfvWZ4six8MC58M5rU4sMIWtJtNKnBlTpyfI0_bvZTRPqxMwbIO2XrjG3WejlcOPHSDifmILZm2c/s1600/IMG_1614.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmS4grp0mw6X2F9RsngiK_r9InBSa492-4btxrh1od3GAxITsY4Kdjg4Zj6qUJJ1uEfvWZ4six8MC58M5rU4sMIWtJtNKnBlTpyfI0_bvZTRPqxMwbIO2XrjG3WejlcOPHSDifmILZm2c/s640/IMG_1614.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">finished</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Come on in, set a spell.Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14930840753825326104noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1699412933877590380.post-10017083081466149102012-08-14T19:28:00.002-07:002012-08-14T19:28:50.611-07:00Stuck a Carp<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;">It was just like you plan it. Walk into a mud flat, peek over the bushes and see 3 or 4 carp in skinny water. Make one cast to the big fish while his dorsal is out of the water. Perfect cast, and the fish makes a b-lline for the fly, eats, hook set, fish on. Water slashing wildly, rod bent, drag whining....fish off. Broken hook.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fffec6; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;"><br /></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKsilko_viMjEcG0iFRQVZZBxo0w3S7LOMzpSsf155ViN7ozhP-rueB7OJSwv7AKfDAn-mM6Ss4uG8NOc-DoGHdE7_QviBbnjmiOOCA722o8E9LxMVNFFwPryWSn8_Q_sWUkpMcqJL26M/s1600/photo-20.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKsilko_viMjEcG0iFRQVZZBxo0w3S7LOMzpSsf155ViN7ozhP-rueB7OJSwv7AKfDAn-mM6Ss4uG8NOc-DoGHdE7_QviBbnjmiOOCA722o8E9LxMVNFFwPryWSn8_Q_sWUkpMcqJL26M/s400/photo-20.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tied on a vintage Black Pool Brittish made hook</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;">It was a 1x strong hook. Maybe it was my fault for poor hook selection. I tied this fly a week or two ago, and it's maiden cast stuck my first carp, and that carp was a strong 5 pounder. Everything was perfect...but the hook.</span></span>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14930840753825326104noreply@blogger.com0