The Lone Fisherman Diaries

Steve...

2011-10-06T13:28:00.004-05:00

Steve Jobs

1955 – 2011

Steve… thank you.

Thank you for your inspiration, for showing us what could be.

You were the original crazy one…

You were the genius…

You dared to be different…

You dared to fail…

You dared to succeed…

You dared to tell us what we wanted – definitely against marketing tradition, which says “give ‘em what they want.”

You knew we didn’t know what we wanted until you thought it into existence…

and then built it.

and showed it to us, like a proud parent.

You were… and always will be…

Insanely great.

Epilogue

Countless years from now, explorers will finally reach the edge of the universe. There they’ll encounter a curious, inexplicable phenomenon... a dent.

Rest now, Steve Jobs... your work here is done.

Remembering...

2010-05-03T11:57:00.013-05:00

Dunno why… of all things, a Facebook question got me to remembering this morning…

I remember sitting in a movie theater in the summer of 1985. I was waiting for a movie called Top Gun to start. The theater half-darkened, the previews of coming attractions rolled, and then the popcorn ad appeared.

After the popcorn ad finished, the theater went black. Paramount’s mountainous logo appeared and a trail of stars went silently flowing onto the screen to surround it. An echoey drum beat began. Low rhythmic strains of piano, bells and something else joined in. A shadowy scene materialized: the red-brown mist of an ocean dawn.

Men and jets crawled slowly around a carrier deck, maneuvering and lining up for take-off. The music began to build. The intensity grew... and grew... and grew - for almost three minutes.

Then some guy in goggles and a yellow vest standing on the flight deck came to attention, cocked his left wrist shoulder-high, and pointed forward. With that little move everybody ducked, the catapult exploded, and the first jet was off like it was shot from a gun.

That crazy-wild guitar started playin', Kenny Loggins started singin’, I wet my pants, and the rest is movie history.

Watch this and see if you can remember what the first four minutes of history felt like.

Class of 2009... Goin' to the Moon

2009-06-10T15:46:00.004-05:00

Inspired by a tremendous Minnetonka, MN Class of 2009 Commencement Ceremony last evening, I came across this transcript this morning. It's the oft-quoted speech that John F. Kennedy gave at Rice University in September of 1962, announcing our country's decision to go to the moon.

http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/We_choose_to_go_to_the_moon

In case you can't reach the link, the fifteenth paragraph goes like this:

"We choose to go to the moon. We choose to go to the moon... [interrupted by applause] we choose to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard, because that goal will serve to organize and measure the best of our energies and skills, because that challenge is one that we are willing to accept, one we are unwilling to postpone, and one which we intend to win, and the others, too."

Several outstanding young men and women spoke last evening at the Minnetonka commencement and, to a person, what you just read is what they said. Oh, they may not have used the same words (although one faculty speaker discussed the "Ten Year Race" to one's dreams and ambitions that begins with high school commencement). In fact, by my recollection, not one student even mentioned the Moon. But there wasn't any doubt. Each and every one of them said the very same thing, nearly 47 years after President Kennedy spoke with the same ambition, the same spirit, the same fire, the same brashness, indeed, the very same impetuousness.

My faith in our future was shored up big time last night. Perhaps you can see why...

A Comment on the Hubble Telescope

2009-05-10T15:04:00.011-05:00

Well, the shuttle Atlantis screams skyward tomorrow for one last mission to the Hubble. If you'd do me a little favor, at 1:01pm CDT tomorrow, stop whatever you're doing for a minute or two, say a little prayer, look up, and pump your fist a couple of times, because that's when they hit the LOUD button down there at Kennedy.

Frankly, for my money they could fold the tent on Hubble right now... if - IF - Atlantis would just pluck it out of orbit, pack it up, and bring it home to hang in the Smithsonian's Air & Space Museum. The Hubble is a cultural and scientific icon of the highest order. The HIGHEST order. Not only has it sent back images far in excess of expectations, the damn thing was broke when it went up. Unfixable. A blurry, unfixable, screw-up of a white elephant. A laughing stock if there ever was one from our scientific community.

So what did NASA do?

They fixed it.

They sent Story Musgrave up to fix the thing so it could become something that, 500 years from now, will be mentioned in the same breath with Galileo. Musgrave should have his statue right beside Neil Armstrong, the crew of Apollo 13, and the crews of Challenger and Columbia - hell, they should print his face on money - for what he accomplished on the spacewalks he took.

Wish I had the energy... I'd start a grass roots campaign to bring it home.

Sigh...

Confessions of a Recovering Engineer

2008-12-01T06:36:00.007-06:00

Discussing texting and the abbreviations 'NASA' and 'NACA' with a friend the other day got me to thinking again about how I miss being part of the space program and the aerospace industry. A life regret I guess. I suppose I could still pursue it.

I am still – to this day – intensely proud of my degree in Aerospace Engineering & Mechanics, a true dual degree (aerospace engineering is one discipline, and theoretical mechanics, a discipline which no one really understands when you tell them about it, is another) and the last one offered by the University of Minnesota's Institute of Technology in 1981 (I don’t know what they call the degree these days). My diploma hangs in my home office where I can see it as I sit and type. I still love to tell people I’m an engineer by training, and when they ask what kind of engineer, I feel a flush of pride when I tell them, "Aerospace." This is not an ego thing, this is a validation-of-self thing.

As a twenty-something young man, all I ever really wanted was to be an engineer. In those days I was always happiest while working alone in my office, doing design calculations. I remember late afternoons, sitting at my desk, with a set of blueprints effectively forming a desk blotter, and with my trusty Hewlett-Packard calculator and a yellow pad of my company's custom printed engineering paper, figuring out the geometry or calculating the stresses on whatever part I was designing at the time.

Of course, the calculator and pad of engineering paper were soon overtaken by the PC and spreadsheet programs like Excel, but – indicative of my true nature – these days I enjoy working with Excel and my CAD system at work. I design jewelry with the CAD system and I do all my custom job costing and other financial analysis with Excel templates I’ve set up.

I suppose I should be paying close attention to these feelings as I contemplate the next phase of my work life.

Hello all, and Happy Thanksgiving!

2008-11-28T16:23:00.005-06:00

Something this morning is compelling me to put down some thoughts about Thanksgiving. I receive a daily electronic newsletter on business, entrepreneurship, and personal growth. All this week, members of the staff have been taking turns listing their top ten favorite things about Thanksgiving – more to the point, the Top Ten Things they’re thankful for.

So…

For me, as the youngest of four kids spread over 17 years and flung to the four geographic winds, “over the river and through the woods…” has often meant a car trip of 500 to 1000 miles or more: Manhattan, Kansas to Denver, Colorado; New Paltz, New York to Wamego, Kansas; Albert Lea, Minnesota to Chicago; Albert Lea to Lufkin, Texas; Albert Lea to Wamego; Minneapolis to Wamego; Minneapolis to NE Colorado.

Each one of those trips was a long ride in a cramped car, with family not seen in many months and perhaps a couple of years waiting at the other end. I remember listening to self-help books on tape for 1100 miles on my way from Minneapolis to Colorado one year. Another year I had my two small kids, Caitlin and Melissa, sitting in the back seat with stacks of library books, crayons, and toys piled high around them as we cruised through the grey Iowa landscape. When I was young, my parents and I made a loooooong road trip from Albert Lea to East Texas to see my brother Jack and his wife, Carol. Man! I thought that trip would NEVER end! Lufkin, Texas stole my heart however. What a beautiful little city, tucked into the pine woods of East Texas .

And of course, the food. My Mother’s “wet bread” stuffing, which wasn’t stuffing at all because we never did a turkey in those days. “Dressing” is a better word for it, made in a Corningware casserole and baked in the oven, and it was delicious! I wish I had the recipe, but I wonder if I could repeat the dish. Mashed potatoes and gravy… yummmm! Ham or ham-loaf, our family Thanksgiving meat of choice – I didn’t learn what turkey tasted like until I was 19 years old! Peas, green beans, and – OH YEAH! – turnip potatoes, those weird orange mashed potatoes with turnips mixed in and all mashed up together. I never could eat those… couldn’t get past the color. And rolls, and sweet pickles, and olives… and cranberry sauce. My Mother alternately tried making cranberry sauce from scratch – which never jelled – and serving it out of a can. To this day, it really isn’t Thanksgiving for me without cranberry sauce in a lovely crystal dish – with the tin can’s rippled sides molded into the sauce. (Side note: every year my sister still tries to make cranberry sauce from our Mother’s recipe. When we talk across the miles on Thanksgiving Day, she always gives me the report on whether the sauce jelled. She’s always a bit disappointed when it does.)

Which brings us to family. Family is perhaps what we, each and every one of us, are most thankful for. Health, security, world peace, a good hair day, and a clean, ironed shirt are all blessings of course, but having family makes the absence of one or more of those tolerable. I remember the first Thanksgiving that I was able to out-eat my big brother. Paid for it later of course. I remember the time I thought I had to eat everything my kids left on their plates (after cleaning my own) so the food wouldn’t go to waste. Paid for it later of course (ooo… that was a bad one). I remember being a little kid, basking in the warmth of laughter, snacks, and a game of Parcheesi, listening as my family caught up on all the happenings of their separated lives, rejoined for a few days in the late fall of the year.

I remember so many Thanksgivings, traveling in a car across a cold, snowy or icy landscape – west Kansas, Iowa north to south, never-ending Nebraska east to west, Pennsylvania-Ohio-Indiana-Illinois-Missouri, with Family at the other end of the trip. Hugs and handshakes, carrying the suitcases in out of the car, spilling over with news of our lives, and never enough time to get everything covered. But it’s OK. Family understands… and now we have e-mail and cell phones and web videophones, if we remember to use them, all relatively free to use so we can keep up between Thanksgivings.

To you, all my family and extended family, I hope this little missive, describing what I remember and what I’m thankful for, has jogged a few memories from across your years, and helped you reflect on what this holiday means to you. You all mean the world to me!

Happy Thanksgiving!

A Brief, Incomplete, and Possibly Imprecise History of Adams™ Reels

2008-11-23T11:08:00.017-06:00

Adapted from two e-mails I recently wrote in response to inquiries about the reels, the man, and the company I briefly owned in 2003.

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I’ve had a couple of inquiries about Bill Adams and his reels lately, so I thought I’d create this post while the information is still fairly fresh in my mind.

I’ll cover the reels first: They are made of lightweight 6061-T6 aluminum, hard anodized black on the side plates. The anodizing is then machined away on the rims and the “S” handle. The center axle/ spindle, pillars, and all screws are 303S stainless steel, the gear is brass, and the bushing/ bearing is Oil-Lite®. There are a few small internal parts that are non-stainless steel. The rest is aluminum, so unless the reel has been around salt water or was stored wet or never cleaned, corrosion should not be a problem.

The spool is CNC (computer/ numerical control) machined (actually, when I made the reels, virtually all parts were made on CNC lathes and machining centers). Bill always hand finished the spools to remove the machine marks before anodizing. (This is death for anyone trying to sell these at a profit – the hand finishing takes too much time and is a real pain.) My shop and I figured out how to use tool selection, ultra-high tool speeds, and unique automated polishing techniques to get the finish we needed without the hand work. Make sure the reel you’re looking at is nicely finished, with no tool marks under the anodizing. Once anodized, there’s no going back.

Bill hand fit all the parts when he was making them. He made all parts on a small mill and two small lathes in his bedroom-sized shop, which was attached to the back of his house. Such parts need hand fitting during assembly. This is important to note should the reel ever need service or if you purchase a spare spool later on. If you ever do that, be aware that the new spool may need to be worked on in order to fit the reel, if the reel is of Bill Adams vintage (roughly pre-2002). CNC techniques standardize parts and reduce/ eliminate the need for hand fitting.

The reels were always a little wide for my taste and I believe Mr. Lacey, who currently makes the reels to Bill’s specifications (see below), is now offering a ¾” wide reel, at least in the 2-¾” size. I think that’s a great idea, and had plans to do that myself when I owned the company. I also had plans to use the wider frames for a large arbor version, and I think Mr. Lacey is also offering something like that. I think they now get $465 for a reel and $200 or more for a spool, so the price you’re being quoted isn’t bad, assuming the reel is in good shape.

They’re a delightful little reel for small to medium fish. They have only a click-pawl drag (and a light one at that). They work fine on smaller streams while chasing fish up to a pound or two. They look great on a cane rod and have some modern features (a palming rim and the ability to quickly change to a spare spool) that make them easier to use. I know people who’ve caught bigger fish – up to five pounds or more, but it’s a challenge to land such a fish. The reel does have a palming rim, so a fisherman who has good technical equipment handling skills can palm the spool to augment the drag and stop bigger fish.

The bottom line is you’re not going to break one of these reels unless you run over it with your car. They are held together with screws however, so they can theoretically work loose from time to time (I’ve never experienced this with mine, and I’ve fished them since 2002). If you chase bigger fish, or fish salt water at all, I would not recommend the Adams, but if you fish smaller streams chasing fish up to 15” – 20” and like traditional tackle with some modern design features, this is a great little reel. I wish I’d been a better business man in those days. I’d love to still be making them.

Now the history:

I'll try to remember as much of Bill’s story and the story of Adams Reels as I can without digging deep for my notes (which are God knows where). So, caveat emptor on some of the details.

Bill Adams was trained as a tool & die maker and was in the Navy on, I believe, a light cruiser during WWII. When the war ended he went home and eventually went to work for AMF, servicing bowling alleys. He was a fisherman and tinkered with reels in his spare time. He generated several designs and prototypes before coming up with the present design. He knows/ knew most of the reel makers around New England - you may know he lives northeast of Albany, NY, near the little town of Cambridge - and they all talk, or did in those days.

Bill really liked the classic look of the 'S' handle, but liked the newer development of a quick release spool. Upon the encouragement of friends in the business, he developed and standardized the current design sometime in the early '90's, I believe. The design is patented, but (I think) the patent is weak and there are some irregularities with it.

Bill made the reels himself in a small shop off the back of his house near Cambridge. He made most parts by hand or typical machining methods (lathe & mill), but had the spools CNC machined at a local job-shop. As he got older he was looking to sell the company. I live in Minnesota and learned about him from a local fly shop owner who’d tried to purchase a couple of reels from him and had heard the company was for sale.

I got ahold of Bill to discuss a possible purchase of Adams Reels. Bill was indeed interested in selling, so I bought a sample reel to inspect and test-fish. I was quite pleased and impressed with the reel and subsequently made a couple of trips to see Bill, the first in late summer of 2002 to see his operation, and again in January of 2003 to consummate the sale, pick up the assets of the company - existing parts, tooling, plans & documentation, the above-mentioned patent, etc. - and to document his manufacturing process as best I could. When I took over manufacture, I redesigned a few parts and had all parts CNC machined, and that eliminated the hand fitting.

Unfortunately, I misjudged how to market the reels - misjudged the market altogether for that matter, and spent waaaay too much on big-time magazine advertising with no increase in sales over the numbers Bill had seen. Thus, I could only keep the business going for about a year. Through the purchase agreement I had with Bill, if the business failed, the assets that I took posession of reverted to him. That indeed happened, at the end of 2003. I spent the week between Christmas and New Years packing up boxes and shipping stuff back to him.

(A little aside here, these things are incredibly expensive to make in small quantities, paying modern US shop rates. That's why you see so much going overseas, to China and elsewhere. And that in turn is why you can now find a very good machined reel still in the $100 range - foreign manufacture. And it's also the biggest reason why you don't find a lot of these reels around anymore. I think if someone was a hobby machinist and didn't need to turn a profit, they could make a nice side hobby business out of reels - these or any other. And of course, that's what is happening with all these modern classic reels. They’re all boutique reels, made in small numbers by machinists, and appealing mostly to connoisseurs.)

I believe Bill made reels for another year or two. I'm not sure though, as I lost touch with him (I frankly was pretty embarrassed about my lack of business performance). I didn't know what became of him or the reels until they showed up in LL Bean's fly fishing catalog a couple of years ago. I know he'd also previously approached Orvis about the reels (Cambridge is near Manchester, VT). I mean no disrespect but I have to say the reel in the photo in Beans' catalog, and also on their catalog website, was of inferior finish. You could see machine marks all over it. I was surprised LL Bean would use such a photo. As I said above, make sure the finish on the reel you’re considering is good.

As alluded to above, a cane rod maker in Georgia by the name of Gary Lacey is apparently making the reels now. I believe he's the same one who made (makes?) them for LL Bean. The gentleman at Just Reels (I can't remember his name - Jim Williams, I think) notes that he hasn't gotten any reels from Mr. Lacey in quite some time, so I don't know the situation there.

That’s an overview of what I can remember about the history of Bill Adams and Adams Reels. There are obvious holes in this history, and some of the facts may be a bit vague, but it’s the overall story. I have to say, I’ve found this exercise inspiring! It’d be fun to pull together a real history of Bill Adams, his reels, and his company.

-TLF

Been There... Done That

2008-08-30T16:12:00.001-05:00

I received a couple of posts from my friend Bob the other day. I’ve repeated them below, followed by my thoughts on his thoughts.

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From: Bob
Sent: Thursday, August 28, 2008 12:03 PM
To: Ed
Subject: Indifference

I think I've figured out at least one reason (out of many probably) why things I've been interested in, in the past, such as the Olympics or political conventions, don't interest me as much now.

Age.

As a grade-schooler and later as a teenager, we kids would sit before a radio, and later a TV, with the names of the presidential candidates written down and we'd write the vote totals down state-by-state for the candidates. And we'd be excited, particularly if some of us favored one, and the rest of us another. There were other things over the years such as King's "I Have A Dream Speech" which always moved me.

Today, I had MPR on and this hour they were to memorialize King and play his speech. I turned it off and felt immediately puzzled, then recognized the feeling - more of "been there, done that."

There are other factors too in each of these various things in life that we Americans watch, listen to, admire etc. But new things come along to become interested in and something else has to give way time-wise and major interest-wise.

But that's for the old geezers like me. We have to continue to educate our young in many, many aspects of our American life, serious and frivolous.

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From: Bob
Sent: Thursday, August 28, 2008 12:09 PM
To: Ed
Subject: Footnote...

To my boring introspective.

For many things these days, the outcome seems to matter more than the process. I'm quite interested in the outcome of the election, and although the process can be quite annoying at times, the outcome is more interesting. Liked to follow Phelps's results and root for him, but didn't want to watch particularly.

On the other hand, the process my grandson is undergoing week by week and month by month and year by year is incredibly interesting.

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Bob,

I thought these two e-mails of yours were pretty good analysis. I think you hit it on the head. I suffer(?) from much the same thing. New things come along to grab our interest. I believe in life as chapters, and a been-there-done-that feeling makes sense in that light.

I think even your example of results mattering more than process (I assume you mean to you) is largely a case of been-there-done-that. The fact that watching the process of Julian grow and mature is “incredibly interesting” to you is, I think, a case of NOT having been-there-done-that for quite a long time, 30+ years in your case. Thus it is new, and because he is your grandson, he is extremely important to you.

The high profile example of this in my own life is trout fishing. Ten years ago, I lamented that I could get out no more than 10 or 12 times a year. Now it’s 3 or 4 and I don’t miss it all that much. When I do go, I wonder why I don’t go more often, but away from the stream there seem to be too many other things that grab my interest or request / demand my time and attention, not the least of which is our current, ongoing attempt to grow a business, and the myriad of tasks and learning that go with it.

-Ed

Cohiba Daydreamin’

2008-03-20T14:09:00.012-05:00

With apologies to one Mr. James W. Buffett of Pascagoula, MS

My wife Lisa and I just got back from Cozumel, that beautiful little beach & jungle island jewel off the coast of the Mexican Yucatan peninsula. We try to go back there every few years. We love it – the weather, the warmth (especially this time of year), the laid back attitude and lifestyle, the beaches, even the humidity! This particular trip was, more than anything, a beach vacation for us. Other years we’ve taken the offspring along, or only gotten to visit for a few hours from a cruise ship. This year was just us and the shopping and the beaches… and some restaurants… and a series of bizarre incidents involving cigars.

We saw and did so many different things that my mind is a numbed blur of memories. We saw a good sized lizard of the JC variety, running on his hind legs like a bandit across the road in front of us. We saw a HUGE iguana draped down his owner’s front from shoulder to ankle, waiting for an unsuspecting tourista to take his picture.

One day we went on an ATV tour of the interior of the island. We jarred our bones on the rocky trails, and saw cenotés (the mysterious underground streams & lakes of the Yucatan), caves, and iguanas, and ate a lot of dust from the machines just in front of us. Curiously, Lisa didn’t really like the trail and at one point, simply drove off into the bush. That got her in trouble with the tour operators, who warned her, “Señora, the road is THEES way!”

Another day we went shopping in town, lured by the attractions of $1 cerveza, vulgar T-shirts, and cheap silver jewelry. And who knew that differences between countries in pricing structures, import tariffs, etc. would mean that one can get a Rolex or Cartier watch for just a few hundred dollars?

We had two windy-wild ferry rides, to and from Playa del Carmen, that bracketed a nice stroll down Playa’s famous 5th Avenue. While there we saw an unusual bunny-lizard-lizard-bird act and we have photographic evidence to show that we weren’t under the influence of the local tequila.

There was an older gentleman at the restaurant where we ate lunch one day whom we thought was marvelously color coordinated, with a turquoise straw cowboy hat and a turquoise and green striped shirt. Then he stood up to reveal his red, white, and blue, stars & stripes shorts – apparently not yet a “fashion-don’t” while on vacation in Mexico.

And of course, the beaches. Our perennial favorite has been Playa San Francisco – San Francisco Beach. When we first stumbled across it in 2001, there was one sleepy little beach club and very little else. Through the years, it’s grown, gotten competitors on both sides (Paradise Beach Club and Carlos & Charlie’s Beach Club), and is a whole lot noisier. Still, the sand and water are to die for and for a day it was great to be back on familiar ground – or sand. We met some nice folks off a cruise ship, and had a relaxing sun-drenched afternoon filled with interesting conversation, boat drinks and cerveza. Best of all, I was able to successfully conduct a discrete beach-side negotiation involving several of the legendary Cohiba brand cigars imported from a rather large, but relatively unknown island in the Caribbean known as Cuba.

We got bold the last couple of days and rented a little four wheeled unit called a Rhino. This is kind of a four wheeler but with a body, a roll cage, and two seats side-by-side. No rear-view or side-view mirrors though. I tell ya, lack of mirrors and sharing the road with jeeps, taxi-vans, mopeds, busses, and even semis made this little machine one wild ride!

While tooling around the island one day we came across Playa Palancar, the beach opposite the famous dive reef of the same name. To get there you pull off the main road and drive a small dirt track across about a half mile of back water, jungle and swamp. This trip was much more interesting to us after we learned that there are salt water crocodiles in the area. However, the beach club was quiet and well removed from the cruise ship traffic, being located at the south end of a $40 round trip taxi ride, and the cerveza and boat drinks were nicely chilled. Best of all were the wide expanses of that incredible neon-electric blue-green water the Caribbean is famous for. Playa Palancar is our new favorite beach.

All in all, this was a good trip and we can’t wait to go again. In fact, ever since we got back we’ve been wondering why the hell we came home.

Oh, the Cohibas? Tragically, all were lost in a series of small, mysterious fires. For reasons I’m sure you can understand, I am unable to identify the arsonist or the exact circumstances surrounding the blazes. The only thing I can say for sure is the culprit must have been well paid for his work. He was wearing a shiny new Rolex.

Private Literature

2007-10-31T08:36:00.000-05:00

Yet another quote crossed my electronic desk this morning, this time by Aldous Huxley: “Every man's memory is his private literature.” If that’s true, and upon reflection I believe it is, then each of us has exclusive access to the greatest treasury of fly fishing literature in the world, right between our own ears.

These stories that make up this literary treasure trove are not written in words, though they may have a caption or two here and there. Rather, they are written in feelings. The adrenaline rush you get as you land a fish you’ve hunted for the past 20 minutes, the shock of wet cold clear water when you dip your hand, the staccato quiver of a rod when a fish takes, the cool wet wiggle of a fish as you release it, the twinge in your gut when your offspring catches their first fish on a fly.

These stories are written in colors. They are the colors you see when you look deep into a pool and see the merest hints of the swaying movement of a fish – or was it a weed, clear blue-brown stream water against a green-green grassy bank, the hurt-your-eyes blue sky with a turkey vulture gliding across 1000 feet up, the gold-red-brown of September leaves rustling in the breeze on the last day of the season.

These stories are written in flavors. The flavors of a warm baloney sandwich from your vest pocket after fishing for three or four hours, the cool freshness of the apple that was tucked alongside, the half warm water or Gatorade or Coke that you carried to wash it down. The gentle burn of whiskey at dusk, of a cigar with a friend in the disappearing last light of evening and the emerging half-truths of fish caught and missed.

These stories are written in sounds. Those half-truths rolling off the tongue of your buddy, those dry September leaves bouncing together before taking that last leap of life from the tree to the forest floor, the white noise of a riffle, shedding its nymphs to the fish just below, the call of a friend 150 yards away, “fish on!,” a fly line sizzling by your ear at 120 miles an hour, that whiskey burbling from the flask to the little tin cup.

The stories that make up this incredible collection belong to no one else... They are yours alone…

One Small Step for a Man...

2007-07-20T15:37:00.000-05:00

Thirty-eight years ago this evening a man named Neil stood up on his hind legs and jumped out of his vehicle into a dusty vacuum a quarter of a million miles away and… did his job.

Of course, you know I’m talking about Neil Armstrong, the first man to walk on the moon. You may or may not know much about him. I only know a few stories.

One of my favorites is of the time he was testing a new flight vehicle, a precursor to the Lunar Module, when things went terribly wrong. The thing went out of control, flying crazier and crazier until, a few feet off the ground, Armstrong had to eject. He was so close to the ground that ejection could have easily killed him, but he survived without injury. After being checked out and released, he went back to his office … to do some paperwork.

Those of us who are mere mortals would perhaps have taken a day or two off – or at least the rest of the afternoon – to contemplate our mortality and relationship with God. Neil? He just did his job.

No wonder they chose him to be the first…

-Ed

Thoughts on Equipment

2007-07-17T20:32:00.001-05:00

Someone asked me about equipment the other day. Here's what I wrote to him:

I really don’t know what to say about fit & finish and all with trout rods. The Hexagraphs are as good as any, fit and finish-wise. If you’re on a budget I’d look at Elkhorn. $200 or less gets you an awesome fishing tool and as fishing tools go, I don’t really care what they look like. I have a friend who likes his gear looking all used and about worn out. As long as it catches fish, he doesn’t care what it looks like. I kind of agree. I used a four piece 5wt Elkhorn for seven days straight on the Green River a couple of years ago and broke it the last day. I sent it back with $25 and they sent me a new one.

One of my Orvis rods is a cane rod from about 1965, one is a home made graphite from an Orvis blank that I bought from the woman who taught me to tie flies from probably the early ‘80’s or earlier, and one is a sale rod ($200+ rod from the early ’90’s that I got from their sale flier for $100) from the early days of my love affair with 3wt's – that I always forget I have and never fish. These days with Orvis you’re paying more for the name than you are for the rod. Nice stuff, but buy something else if you like value. I doubt I’d ever buy a new one again.

I’ve always heard that Scott rods are great. A buddy of mine has one and likes it, and Telluride, CO is a cool place to have a rod from. Winston rods are legend, current company ownership soap operas notwithstanding. You might have noticed that I haven’t mentioned Sage. I have one or two, and they’re nice rods. If you want one, watch eBay and get an old one. As with Orvis, you now pay more for the name than you do for the rod.

I dunno. If you have cubic money, buy a quiver-full of Hexes or Winstons – a half dozen for various fishing situations will put you back about $5000 – and go fish. If you’re on a budget, buy a quiver-full of Elkhorns for the same half dozen fishing situations – that will put you back about $1000 or $1200 – and go fish. By the way, the last I knew, Elkhorn had some nice reels that went nicely with their rods. Trouble with Elkhorn is they changed hands since I got mine, and I don’t know what they have for reels OR rods any more, or how much they cost. If you’re buying Hex’s, might as well drop another $1500 - $2000 and get a bag of Hardy Lightweights - Featherweights and LRH’s - and associated spare spools.

Regardless of equipment, fish your brains out and make sure your equipment shows it. Get hot and sweaty and tired. Fish in dangerous places, places where you’re not at the top of the food chain. Get hot, cold, bug-bit, wild-parsnip- and sun-burned, and hungry… and happy. Fish in water so cold your feet go numb. Fish until your hat and clothes are permanently sweat-stained, until the insides of your waders stink. "Trout Bum" and "Trout Hunter" are honorable titles. Gierach once said something like, “Fly fishing is the kind of endeavor that, once people know you do it, they think you’re a little imbalanced – enough so they leave you alone, but not so much that they put you away.” That’s a BAD paraphrase, but you get the idea. And remember, catching fish is about the least important part of fishing.

-Ed

Alas... the Cat's no longer in the Cradle...

2007-04-12T07:30:00.002-05:00

… the Champions are finished with breakfast, and Tralfamadore’s closed for business.

-----------------------------------------------------

“NEW YORK - Kurt Vonnegut, the satirical novelist who captured the absurdity of war and questioned the advances of science in darkly humorous works such as "Slaughterhouse-Five" and "Cat's Cradle," died Wednesday. He was 84.”

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I am, perhaps, not Vonnegut’s greatest fan, but I’m a fan. I read Cat’s Cradle in high school in the infant ‘70’s, in an English literature class that shaped my whole future. I thought it tremendously weird, but was fascinated with the concept of “Ice-9,” that version of ice that forms at room temperature, originally created for the Marines to be able to cross swamps in times of war. It was a natural progression of events due to the fallibility of man that the end of the world was not far off from that discovery.

I saw Slaughterhouse Five on the big screen when it came out in 1972. Again, I was an impressionable high school student. What a fantastic movie! ‘Fantastic’ in its truest sense. Billy Pilgrim, bouncing around time and place like channels changing on a TV. And what teenage boy could forget Montana Wildhack? Oh, to be trapped forever in a luxurious glass-domed condo on Tralfamadore with her.

And all his other fantastic works… what can one say about such a sharp, prescient social commentator who could also write good? Other than observing that there is yet another gaping hole in our collective social conscience.

ahhh Kurt… we’ll miss ye… please greet Doug Adams for us as you stick your thumb out on the entrance ramp to that Intergalactic Highway to Heaven…

-Ed

Space... the Final Frontier

2007-01-28T12:15:00.000-06:00

White
Grissom
Chaffee

Scobee
Smith
Resnik
Onizuka
McNair
Jarvis
McAuliffe

Husband
McCool
Anderson
Clark
Brown
Ramon
Chawla

Yesterday was the 40th anniversary of a fire that killed three men on a dry spot in the Florida swamp. Today is the 21st anniversary of an explosion that killed seven men and women in the skies over the Atlantic ocean. In a few days, it will be the fourth anniversary of an accident that killed seven men and women in the skies over Texas.

I’ve said it before, space travel and more to the point, space exploration is a dangerous business. It is also, and much more importantly, the best, most noble manifestation of what we human animals do. We explore. We become our best – or worst – when we reach for that which is just beyond our grasp.

Our species’ history as explorers is checkered at best, heinous and horrific at worst. Let’s let the seventeen men and women whose names are listed above, and the numerous others who died in less public ways along the path to the stars, be inspirations for us to be that best, most noble version of the human animal.

And let us not stop exploring space. Not for an instant.

“Roger Houston. Go at throttle-up.”

-Ed

Old Guys

2007-01-28T11:42:00.001-06:00

I don’t know if any of you watch CBS Sunday Morning (which by the way, has a tough time holding a candle to the program it was when Kuralt roamed the set). Today was a high water mark of sorts with the profile of two fairly lively old guys… well, old anyway to this 51-year-old.

They profiled two guys by the names of Chouinard and Seger. Depending on your leisure time activities, you may have heard one name or the other. Both, if you’ve lived a particularly interesting life to this point.

Yvon Chouinard is the founder and owner of Patagonia. No, not that Patagonia (though he could probably afford to buy it if he had a mind to), the other Patagonia… the outdoor equipment and clothing company. At 68, he still surfs (which makes him alright in my book right there!) and runs his company with an eye to the future of the planet and using all of its best features – you know, oceans, forests, mountains, snow, things like that – as a great big sandbox. The title of his business biography, I think, says it all: "Let My People Go Surfing: The Education of a Reluctant Businessman." He started as a dirtball climber, making his own pitons because he couldn’t afford to buy them, then making pitons and other climbing equipment for friends, and now at this end of history, presiding over a company valued at roughly $500M… and his whole company surfs whenever there’s surf, because “surfing isn’t something you do next Tuesday at 2:00.” You go when there’s surf.

Bob Seger… From Chevy commercials (“Like a ROCK…”) to “Against the Wind,” from Tom Cruise dancing in his underwear in “Risky Business,” to giving it all up at age 51 to go home to Michigan to raise his kids. Along the way, this guy penned the greatest rock ‘n roll song ever recorded, “Turn the Page,” about a tired old rocker hitting the stage one more time – because that’s what he does. Now, ten years later, at age 61, and not from keeping in shape like the Stones, but for the pure love of it, he’s back on the road for a four month tour, promoting a new album that’s already gone platinum.

Here are a few lines from “Turn the Page.” These lines could have been written by Hemmingway - but they weren’t… they were written a long time ago by a tired young rocker from Michigan who’d already been on the road a long time – because that’s what he does.

Well you walk into a restaurant,
strung out from the road
And you feel the eyes upon you
as you're shakin' off the cold
You pretend it doesn't bother you
but you just want to explode
Most times you can't hear 'em talk,
other times you can
All the same old cliches,
"Is that a woman or a man?"
And you always seem outnumbered,
you don't dare make a stand

Here I am
On the road again
There I am
Up on the stage
Here I go
Playin' star again
There I go
Turn the page

Or take a listen here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fe7yOccqdxI

When they played that at the end of the Sunday Morning segment this morning, more than one tear came to my eye. Gives an aging fly-fisherman-watch-geek-right-brained-engineer hope ….

-Ed

The Numbers

2005-10-03T17:04:00.002-05:00

I’m picking up where I left off last spring, using quotes as inspiration. Lew sent me this one in April:

“We must learn to live with the quietness of process rather than the franticness of goals." -Robert Theobald.

Well, this got me to thinking about some things. Right away I thought, “This is a good way to approach fishing!” Ritual and process are very important, especially to a fly fisher. We can’t be getting caught up in “how many fish.” We must have evolved beyond that. We MUST have…

I went on a trip to the Green River in Utah with the guys last spring. We had a great time – sweat, cold, rain, wind, blisters, boats, crowds, ospreys, golden eagles, vultures, otters… oh yeah, and trout.

I discovered something about myself on that trip. I learned that, as a fisherman, I haven’t yet progressed to the stage that I thought I had. You’ve heard of the four stages of a fly fisherman, where the goals are something like: 1) catching a fish, 2) catching a lot of fish, 3) catching big fish, 4) just being out there to take it all in.

Here, for some time now I’ve thought I was at that fourth stage – just being out there, to enjoy the eagles and the otters, the hot and cold and blisters, all of that and fish too. After all, I’ve fly fished for fifteen years. I’ve written about it. You’ve read some of what I’ve written.

Well… Bill, Brian, and Bob will tell you, the first thing I asked every night was, “How many did you get?!”

The franticness of goals… Stage Two at best.

Why am I confessing this, when I thought this column was going to be about the quietness of process? I meant to write about the ritual of gearing up at the car: attaching a reel, stringing a rod, selecting a fly and tying it on. Why this, when I thought to talk about turning over a stone to look for nymphs, the gentle release of a fish who fought for its life – and won, about a cigar and a sip of whiskey with good friends at the end of the day?

Why numbers, when I truly do believe that it’s who you fish with, not where you go or how many you get, that matters most? Well, I think the key is buried in that last phrase. “Matters MOST.” Perhaps numbers matter too. If, as I do believe, we fish at least in part to satisfy the ancient hunter that we haven’t quite bred out of ourselves, then numbers have to matter. In our Cro-Magnon – some would say Neanderthal – minds we need those fish to feed our families and ourselves. If we don’t catch fish, we don’t eat. If we don’t eat for a few days, we starve – and eventually we die if that kind of thing goes on for very long.

So I guess the numbers do matter. They still matter to the 10,000 year-old pre-modern human who still lurks just inside our temples. They still matter to the networks of muscles, tendons, and bone that exist a fraction of an inch below the surface of our skins and remember across the millennia just what they were meant for. They still matter to a being who, for a time, doesn’t care about heat, scratches, bruises, sunburn, bugs, cold, wet, light, dark, or anything else as long as the numbers come.

Even today, as long as we get those numbers, we live. Without them, we die… spiritually at least.

–Ed

This Quote...

2005-05-02T16:52:00.000-05:00

... crossed my electronic desk the other day:

“To live content with small means; to seek elegance rather than luxury, and refinement rather than fashion; to be worthy, not respectable, and wealthy, not rich; to listen to stars and birds, babes and sages, with open heart; to study hard; to think quietly, act frankly, talk gently, await occasions, hurry never; in a word, to let the spiritual, unbidden and unconscious, grow up through the common--this is my symphony.” – William Henry Channing, clergyman, reformer (1810-1884)

I have to admit, it struck a chord. It seemed to me to be a good philosophy for fishing with feathers and sharp wire. “To live content with small means; to seek elegance rather than luxury…” I know a guy who only has two or three rods. He loves old, simple, half-worn stuff, but only if he made it that way himself. He’s happiest that way.

“to listen to stars and birds, babes and sages, with open heart…” Elsewhere in this issue I mentioned the Music of the Spheres, a concept I believe in absolutely in spite of my scientific education.

“to think quietly, act frankly, talk gently, await occasions, hurry never…” Above all, fly fishing is an honest endeavor, a pure and unadulterated pursuit of who we are – or once were .

“to let the spiritual, unbidden and unconscious, grow up through the common – this is my symphony.” This thing, this wading, casting, wet, hot, tired, sore, bug-bitten, brush-busting, nettle-stung, wild thing called fly fishing… this is my symphony…

-Ed

Musings Upon Another Season’s End

2002-10-04T10:05:00.000-05:00

I’ve written before on the end of trout season. It’s often a melancholy time for me. I’ve never liked endings, even temporary ones like the passing of trout season. Perhaps in an attempt to distract myself, for the past few years I’ve taken to hosting a party of sorts on the last day of the season. I invite a few friends – whoever can come – to join me on some stream and fish the day away.

When the day’s fishing is done, the waders peeled off, rods stowed, and the initial reports of fish caught and missed submitted, we try to go for a nice dinner somewhere. I always envision a large tender steak or a big plate of pasta with a nice red wine, but it often turns out to be burgers and beer at a local bar & grill. Regardless, I haven’t fished alone on September 30 for a while, though often one or more need to cut out early. That’s OK. I understand the demands of family and job as well as the next guy.

This year was typical. Four of us fished the Rush River near Martell, WI. Some of us even caught a lot of fish. Not me of course. Still, it was a good time to walk in, get to the stream, split up and fish for an hour or two, then join up again by chance and get the report of the last hour’s angling.

I caught up with Bill at one likely looking pool just before he caught the fish of the day – a 16” brown male. Too bad I didn’t have a camera to document the catch. Still, it’s there in our minds’ eyes. Bill then generously gave up the pool to let me catch one, a nice 9” brook trout – my personal best that day. Man, even if they’re small, brookies’re pretty in September!

An hour later, after I’d landed two or three, I caught up with Lew and got his report: 15, although some were pretty small. Kind of like I felt at the time! We found Brian and Bill and walked back to the car for lunch before diving into the woods again in search of more trout, not really wanting the season to end.

Of course, darkness came and the season did end. Three of us (one had to head out early for a son’s hockey practice) went into Hudson for dinner and had a final celebration. Nothing big, just some chat about fish, jobs, kids, spouses… life. I’ve said it before, it’s funny the modest extent to which fishing involves catching fish. The fish, they’re not meaningless of course. I love to catch ‘em. But really, they’re just a catalyst for making a life that’s worth living.

Serendipity

2002-04-27T08:49:00.001-05:00

I learned to tie flies several years ago and I’ve always enjoyed it, though I haven’t done nearly enough. The natural extension of this sort of behavior of course is that you start playing around with new designs. In fact, most folks will tell you that this is a major draw to fly tying in the first place – the chance to create your own fly and catch fish with it.

So this is what I did a few years back. Based upon the brassie concept, I simply put a brass bead on a hook, wrapped some tin weight behind it, and covered the whole mess with some bright red floss. I tied in a bit of black dubbing right behind the bead and thought the result might be part stimulator pattern and part caddis emerger. I’d never seen anything like it, so when I started catching fish with it, my daughter and I dubbed it “Ed’s Special” kind of like Lefty’s Deceiver or the Troth Caddis. I didn’t noise the naming part around too much though. It was mostly a private thing between father and daughter.

Well, it turns out I spent one of the most enjoyable half hours I’ve ever spent on a trout stream, fishing to a small pod of fish with that fly. They were in a tiny hole on the Rush River, no bigger than my kitchen. Of course I was backed up to high and heavy brush and had to stand so close to the fish that I couldn’t hide. I could see them everywhere and miraculously, they didn’t spook. I could have stood there all day long, watching them take nymphs and fight for position.

I threw that Special to the head of the pool and took fish on every third or fourth cast for quite a while. Some were small – seven or eight inches – but one or two were in the 12” to 15” range. I watched every one I caught turn on its side and take my fly. MY FLY! I’d invented it, I’d tied it, I fished it, and the fish ate it! Surely no greater thing could happen to a fly fisherman.

So with a mixture of pride and modesty, I presented a few to Bill one morning as we headed out. He took one look and said, “Nice flies. Serendipities. Thanks.”

My ego hasn’t fully recovered to this day.

Heros

2002-03-08T15:39:00.000-06:00

I recently read A Flyfisher’s World by Nick Lyons. It’s a nice anthology of his magazine articles from the early ‘90’s. I recommend it. As I was reading, it occurred to me that Mr. Lyons is one of my fly fishing heroes. He has successfully blended fly-fishing, writing, and publishing into a wonderful career. Of course this career has not been without its frustrations and compromises. In fact, those very frustrations and compromises are at the heart of many of Mr. Lyons’ stories.

This realization about heroes got me to thinking about other fly fishers who are heroes to me. There is a retired gentleman and former club president here by the name of Hugh who pretty much gave me my start with my local club (MN Fly Fishers). Two other former club presidents named Greg and Brian are the standards by which I measure my casting (and surely I fall far short). My good buddy and Best Man Lew taught me to fish with nymphs and thereby multiplied the number of fish I catch several-fold.

Ask another friend of mine Bob about the relative merits of various dog breeds, or my good friend Bill about the finer points of wading in ranch country, or retired writer Jack about any of a thousand things in the heritage of fly-fishing. All three carry fabulous knowledge and great good humor to liven a western fishing trip. A woman I know named Ellen ties the most beautiful Blue Winged Olives I’ve ever seen. I catch fish with flies I’ve tied myself because she taught me how to tie them. I shall be her student always.

Now probably none of these people would think of themselves as heroes. If asked, they’d just say they were trying to pass on a little bit of knowledge here and there, helping some folks along the way, that sort of thing. They’d probably be a little self-conscious to know I was mentioning them here but I feel fortunate indeed to count them all as friends. I try to give back a small measure of what they’ve given me – a few flies, a kind word, or help with a fouled line. But what can you give back to a Nick Lyons or a Lefty Kreh or a Gary Borger? Yes, we might run across these folks somewhere. (In fact, Brian ran into Lefty Kreh on Christmas Island once and has been calling himself “Righty” ever since.) If we ever do see these folks, we might say a quick, half-embarrassed “Thanks,” but can we count on that? I think not. I decided the way I can say “Thank You” to these folks is by the concept of paying forward. I think that’s what they’d want, too.

It works like this. Watch these people. Emulate the ones you admire. That’s what heroes are for. Do what you can to do what they do, then put your own stamp on it. Share the knowledge you gain by doing so. Show a son, a daughter, a spouse or friend a new fly, a cast or a technique. Learn all you can about whatever interests you, whether it’s streamside bugs, fly line tapers, rod materials, flyfishing literature, or a new place to buy outdoor gear. Then pass it along – pay it forward. Be a quiet, half-self-conscious hero to the next generation.

It's Not About the Toys

2002-03-08T15:21:00.001-06:00

I was just doing some e-mail administration and cleanup and I came across some stuff from an e-mail listserve discussion thread of a while back about why we fish with bamboo rods. I thought I'd pass on this little bit of flotsam.

This happened one evening when I was fishing in western Wisconsin in the spring of 1998. It was one of those beautiful May evenings we get too few of around here. I pulled up to one of my favorite spots and noted only one car parked there. I thought myself lucky, as this place is also one of everybody else's favorite spots. I got out of my car and walked onto the bridge, as is my wont, just to check out the stream. It was running well if a bit cloudy. Downstream about 200 yards I could see the owner of the other car, slowly casting across and downstream. I didn’t think much about it and turned to gear up.

As I finished pulling on my waders, an older gentleman came walking out of the woods - the fisherman from downstream. We shyly greeted each other. Shyly, because in this day and age you aren't ever sure if you're welcome at the stream, even though the law and fishing regulations may be on your side. When we both figured out we were "friendlys," he came over and we started to chat. He was fishing with his son, he said. He was visiting from Florida and they had a chance this evening to wet a line. His son runs a commercial graphics business in the northern metro of Minneapolis/St. Paul and is pretty busy.

The old gentleman mentioned that he hadn't fished in ten years. First the move to Florida, and more recently cancer had cut into his fishing. The disease had ravaged his casting arm to the point where it looked like he’d taken a grenade in Korea. His elbow was covered with a bandage from his most recent surgery. He said he'd been in and out of the hospital eight or nine times in the last three years, but he felt he was holding his own. I allowed as how perhaps the fishing was the best therapy he could find at this point and he heartily agreed. I tried but I couldn't take my eyes off his arm, wondering at the courage I felt it took to fish when he wasn't even healed from the knife. It made the scratches I'd gotten earlier in the evening from a patch of thistles look pretty silly.

We talked some more about how big the fish were – or weren't – in this stream, and whether it mattered. We decided it didn't. Just to have the opportunity to catch them was all either of us needed. Seven inches or twenty-two, the privilege was the same.

I waded in and started to fish while he watched. As I moved upstream, he started chatting with a couple of farm kids who came down with their worms to try their luck. I got involved with my tangled line and then a fish or two and lost sight of him. The next time I turned around, he was still talking to the kids.

When I finally got back to the car a few hours later, he was gone. He and his son had that evening of fishing that they wanted and that he needed. I hope it makes the difference for him.

Oh yeah – he fished with a 35 year old Shakespeare fiberglass rod and a shiny green automatic reel. You see, it’s not about what the rods are made of. Fishing’s not about the toys. It’s about wearing them out with people you love.

In the Beginning...

2001-05-15T08:36:00.000-05:00

Just in case anyone gets this deep in this humble fisherman’s blog, what follows is the brief e-mail exchange from May of 2001 that triggered an idea that grew quietly for a few years and finally blossomed into the Lone Fisherman Diaries…
-Ed, November 2007

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on 05/15/2001 07:22:06 AM

To:
cc:
Subject: A Passing...

A passing... I thought you should know...

"Hitchhiker's Guide" is probably one sci-fi book everyone should read... and where I am sadly lacking. Perhaps now I will pick it up too.

-Ed

** So Long, Douglas Adams, And Thanks For The Fish

Douglas Adams, 49, has hitched a ride off Earth and, presumably, is exploring other parts of the universe. Adams, who wrote the sci-fi novel "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy," (Ballantine Books, 1979) died unexpectedly Friday of a heart attack in Santa Barbara, Calif.

"Hitchhiker," the satirical story of the search for life's answers by alien Ford Prefect and human Arthur Dent, sold 14 million copies, spawned several sequels, and was a popular BBC-TV series, none of which is all that unusual in science fiction. But in a genre that takes itself more seriously than even Adams' sad funeral, his books were tributes to the hilarious absurdity of life among the stars or right here on the condemned Earth.

Adams was born in Cambridge in 1952. His jobs before "Hitchhiker" included work in radio and TV writing and producing. Adams leaves behind a wife, Jane Belson; a daughter, Polly; and as he once wrote, the answer to "the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything." (42)
- Chuck Ulie

--------------------------------------------

--- Lew wrote:

The guide is great stuff. I first encountered it as a radio play on public radio. Then the book and finally the TV adaptation of Adams' work. 42 has always resonated with me as the ultimate answer. It makes perfect sense (or at last as much sense as anything else) and I've often contemplated it over a glass of wine at the Restaurant at the End of the Universe while reading a bit of Vogon poetry.

Lew

--------------------------------------------

Date: Tue, 15 May 2001 06:24:48 -0700 (PDT)
From: Ed
Subject: Re: A Passing...
To: Lew

While not yet having read the Guide, I've encountered it and it's "lore"(?) in fellow science fiction fans. I've always resonated with 7, and of course 42 is, well, like a higher form of 7. As you say, it makes as much sense as anything.

Odd that Adams' death hit me so hard when I haven't actually read his work... I'll have to pick up a copy of the Guide and catch up.

-Ed

-----------------------------------------------

Note from November 2007:

Now you know the why behind the allusion to Doug Adams in the eulogy to Kurt Vonnegut…

If you ever hear me answer "7" or, for that matter, "42" when asked an odd question, now you know what's behind that as well...

...and do get ahold of the Hitchhiker’s Trilogy if you haven’t already. There are four or five books in the Trilogy (yep… says something about Doug Adams right there), all good, ridiculous reading.

Season's End

1998-10-01T20:04:00.000-05:00

I fished yesterday. The season was winding down and I felt the need to get out one more time. I didn’t fish nearly enough this year. A bad back combined with a sharply ramping up love affair served to shift my focus away from the pursuit of the fish. So I needed to get out, to get with myself, to step into the body of God as it were.

Other times I’ve felt His presence, not so much yesterday. I just wanted to feel the pressing of the water around my wadered legs. I wanted to see the bottom of the stream filtered through three feet of gin-like water and a thirty-second of an inch of polarized glass. I wanted to feel the rod become part of my arm and the line become part of my hand.

And yes, I wanted to feel the tug of a fish at the end of that line.

Of course, nothing happened for the first several hours. No fish, at least none attached themselves to the end of my line. The water was like a swimming pool. I could see fish all around me. They weren’t particularly spooked, but they weren’t hungry either. I cast my flies to them as best I could, but nothing.

After several hours of that, you can get pissed or you can get philosophical. I was supposed to meet Lew at 3:00 in a town an hour away so I got philosophical and packed up. I ate my lunch by the side of the stream, bathed in the white noise, and was on my way. I stopped at the little coffee shop in Hudson where we were supposed to meet. Lew had said to give him a half-hour. I gave him forty minutes while I ate a slice of cheesecake and sipped my coffee. Then, when it was obvious he wasn’t coming, I went to the Race and fished.

A half-hour in, I hooked a little 9” brown. At least I wouldn’t get skunked the last day of the season. Not that that was the only goal, but catching fish is at least a part of fishing.

I saw a garter snake trying to cross the stream. I hoped he wouldn’t get washed down to the riffle 150 feet below. I caught a chub. I wondered what the hell they were doing in there, although really I knew. Water temperature, cold stream feeding a warm river, that sort of thing.

A few minutes later I looked up and there was Lew. We chatted for a few minutes, I told him my luck of the day, he told me his – he’d forgotten about a meeting he’d had scheduled at work. We decided to go for hamburgers after the fishing and he said he was going back downstream to fish a couple of favorite spots.

I moved on up, foul hooked an aggressive little five incher, had some more strikes, then hooked a nice 11 inch brown. I fished that run – it really was a nice one – for a few more minutes, then decided it was time to leave.

On the way back down, I stopped in another run I’d skipped on the way in. I caught two more chubs and decided my season was really over.

I ran into Lew working a stretch below a likely looking riffle. He cast and cast, to nothing it seemed. Finally he said “Enough! Five more casts.” He cast a few more times – who was counting? Not me, for sure. On his designated last cast, bang! A nice ten-inch fish.
Now ten-inch fish aren’t always considered nice, but when it’s your declared last cast of the season, and the fish obliges, you don’t question or argue. You simply say thanks.

Now it was my turn, I guess. As we walked out, we passed a plunge pool we each liked. Lew was done but I wanted another chance. I tied on a fly and said, “Just let me have about ten casts.” Well, as poetry would have it, about the third or fourth cast the indicator went down and I had a ten incher of my own. What was it about ten inch fish that night?

Well, I didn’t write this story to brag and I didn’t write it to tell a “Me’n Joe (or Lew) Went Fishin’” story. I wrote it to say thanks. Thanks to a friend for being with me at a bittersweet time of year, for that’s what the end of trout season is. Thanks for sharing a sacred time, and going for a burger afterwards to talk about anything… and nothing.And thanks to a God who let me into His inner world for a time.