Fly Fish Chick

On any given day you’re going to have your ass handed to you on the river. Like yesterday. I gave those fish everything I had. I left my soul in that riverbed, to no avail. Finally I retreated to the banks to join the beer drinkers and languish in the early evening heat.

But we had one Warrior on our team who wouldn’t say die. He fished every inch of that river. He’d cast an inch farther to the left. But the fish would move over a few inches. So he’d cast a few inches over there. He’d alter his mend by a few inches, adjust his indicator up a few inches.

He fought and clawed and fished as fiercely as I’ve ever seen. And eventually, he pulled out the rainbow we’d all been looking for.

We celebrated all eighteen beautiful inches of it. Proof that the inches we need are everywhere around us.

Nothing in this big ole bad world of fly fishing tickles me more than a Spoon Casting Clinic. Perhaps you haven’t heard the term (I’m working on the copyright) but I know you know what I’m talking about. It’s when you are casting so badly that your guide can no longer explain, in words, all the things you are doing wrong. So he stands flush behind you, wraps his arms around yours, holds your hand on the rod and makes the cast for you.

A Spoon Casting Clinic. I think it’s supposed to make me feel the mistakes I’m making in my cast. But it just makes me giggle.

On the flipside I’ve learned — through years and years of hands-on-my-hands research — that talking about the Spoon Casting Clinic will, in turn, make the guys blush a spell. Ladies, I am here to tell you that the mere mention of a Spoon Casting Clinic is your most powerful tool when you’re learning this sport.

First of all if you have a grumpy guide, or a guide that’s intimidating you, just tell him you heard that he’s the Best in the West at a Spoon Casting Clinic. He’ll be puzzled at first, but when you start to explain it, he will be momentarily humbled and slightly embarrassed. For a second he’ll ponder if it’s really true. I don’t know why, but it is foolproof. Lightens-up the mood instantaneously.

If you have a young, super polite guide, go ahead and ask if the Spoon Casting Clinic is included in the price. He will grin and stammer, trying to make a snap decision whether to join you in the joke or hold on to his professional demeanor. A touch cruel perhaps, but it will give you a little spring in your step — which ironically might be just what you need to start casting like a pro!

Now I hope I don’t have to spell this one out for you, but if your guide is really really hot, uh…start casting really really badly.

Of course the power of the Spoon Casting Clinic works off the water too. Last year I was minding my own business at the bar. A real blowhard fisherman rolled into town, all amped-up to hit the water the next day. I asked who was guiding him. Ooh…I responded. Oh yeah he’s a good guide, just be careful. He’s prone to Spoon Casting his male clients.

Hey, it shut the guy up for at least a few seconds.

And ladies, if you’re the superior angler, don’t be afraid to offer a little Spoon Casting Clinic of your own. Nothing livens up a sleepy bar like a round of Hot Damn shots and an impromptu Spoon Casting Clinic.

There is, however, one thing I would caution against. If you’re skinny dipping in mixed company I wouldn’t scream “Spoon Casting Clinic!!!” just to be cute.

No no no…not a good idea. 

After all, some people actually believe spooning leads to forking! Oh good heavens. People, pah-lease…aren’t we just here to catch fish?

A few weeks ago Tim Romano wrote a post on his FlyTalk blog titled Women In Fly Fishing. Tim and I had a brief exchange about the questions he posed in the piece:

“Ladies, are you the sole angler in your circle of friends?”

“Did your mom teach you how to fish?”

“If you don’t fish on a regular basis - why not?”

We agreed it might be an interesting twist if I wrote a response post….oooh, fabulous idea! Sort of like when Kitty Wells sang It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels in response to Hank Thompson’s Wild Side of Life. Overly confident, I was excited to whip up something insightful, sharp and witty.

Just one problem. I couldn’t think of anything to say.

What? I mean, I am a woman. And I fish. I obsess about fishing. I seem particularly well-poised to write about this. But am I a ‘woman in fly fishing’? To tell you the truth, I see myself more as someone who is stumbling through the dark, trying to figure it all out. When it comes to fishing, I’m a work-in-progress.

So let’s just start with Tim’s questions. Yes, I am the only angler in my close circle of girlfriends. Yes, my mom is an avid angler. The reason I don’t fish on a more regular basis? Uh…PTA meetings, homework, sleepovers, bills, clients. Oh, and running around with my friends – most of whom don’t fish.

People ask me all the time why I love to fly fish. Depending on my mood, I might ramble on about the scenery, the escape, the camaraderie, the challenge. The sport of it. The respect of the fish. Blah blah blah. Other times I just smile and shrug my shoulders.

Hell, I don’t know why I love to fly fish. Do you?

Most addicts have to work a 12-step program to understand why they’re hooked. I’m not willing to give up my fishing addiction anytime soon. So without the soul-searching, self-probing insight of rehab, I just continue to muse awkwardly about the myriad of things I love about it.

I can’t speak for all women anglers, but I think I fish for the same reasons a man does. I like big, fat, feisty fish that fight. Native fish with rich colors and lots of energy. I like searching for them in beautiful, clear, skinny water. I like a bent rod. A cool take. I like hungry, dumb fish – until I catch them, and then I want them to be smart and discerning. I like getting them to eat. Picking the right fly. Even better if it’s dry and small.

I don’t see a gender gap at the core of fly fishing. Hell, the fish don’t know I’m a girl. But there are palpable differences for women in the experiences that surround the sport. Most are so harmless, they really don’t bear mention. But just for kicks, what do ya say we take a look at a few?

For example, the Flora & Fauna lessons. When you are a woman fishing with a male guide you don’t know very well, he will almost always cover you up in the nature speeches. Now I love an osprey’s nest as much as the next guy, but I really just want to look for fish. And maybe gossip a little.

A friend of mine had the opportunity to guide Justice Sandra Day O’Connor on the Flathead last summer. Getting into the groove of the day, he offered some fun facts about the mountain range in the background. She responded politely but firmly, “I don’t have a lot of time to fish out here so I don’t need the nature tour. Let’s just find the fish and see what they’re eating.”

Right on Sandy! I like your style darlin.

I’ve met the most wonderful friends in Montana over the years. Men, women, guides, anglers, shop owners, café owners. Some fish. Some don’t. It’s a wonderful community and I am so lucky they welcome me with open arms year after year. And most of the anglers that pass through this summertime fishing town are happy, positive and kind. After all, they’re on vacation doing what they love.

Some of them are just tickled to death to stumble upon a female angler on the banks of the river. Apparently it’s even more exciting than finding an osprey’s nest. If I had a dime for the number of times I’ve heard, “Man I’d like to get you in the front of my boat!” Hardee-har-har. They’re just having fun, I can tell pretty quickly if they’re being nice or being an ass.

A few are flat-out incensed by my presence and ask, “What exactly are you doing here?” If I say I’m just out to fish, some just ignore me, like I’m not supposed to be crashing their boys trip by eating in the same restaurant. Others don’t believe me. They’ll start testing me with condescending questions that I know they know the answers to. “What kind of fish are in this river? What are you catching them on? A hopper? What’s a hopper? Do we get to eat these fish?”

The good news is I have no ego that drives me to respond to any of this banter. It is interesting that they go to such lengths to start a conversation with me, just to be rude. I suppose it’s the middle-aged-man’s version of pulling my pigtails in class. But I don’t care if they think I’m clueless, I’m not competitive. I pretty much thrive on a healthy mix of high standards and low expectations.

I do, however, get annoyed when they bring it to the river. I go out of my way to give other boats plenty of space. Plenty! But some guys see me rowing my mother and my daughter and think our water is fair game. They see three ponytails and have no problem cruising over to low-hole me, while my mother is casting to rising fish off the front of the boat. Now that pisses me off.

Of course I won’t say anything — another difference between men and women. I’m too scared they’d yell back at me.

It’s funny that men are so intrigued by a female angler. I meet a lot of women who fish! I have a few girlfriends in MT who are amazing anglers, some are guides. I love being on the water with them, very chill and lots of laughs. But there are other women who don’t want anything to do with female anglers. They would sooner gnaw off their arm than have a conversation with me about fishing. I think they just like the attention of being a girl in the boys’ club. So they only want to fish with the boys. Talk shop with the boys.

That attitude is insane to me. Never trust a woman who doesn’t have female friends.

But the mildly annoying people in the world of fishing are the exception, not the rule. Over the years, I have met incredible people and dear, dear friends. There is a passion and a generosity of spirit in this sport that transcends all else. I marvel at how much I’ve learned from anglers that hail from so many different places – people I wouldn’t have known otherwise.

After my divorce, fishing became a mirror of my quickly-changing life. At first it reflected a harsh blinding light, bouncing right off the water and straight into my eyes. I realized how much my ex-husband had handled on these fishing trips. I’d been doing this a long time but I didn’t have a clue. So I started asking more questions. Tying my own knots. Wading out in the water by myself.

I began wandering around the flyshop parking lot looking for an open spot in someone’s boat. Like I was in a ski lift line shouting, “Single!” That got me in a few pickles so I had to learn to row myself. I’m inherently quite lazy, so I’ve surprised myself at the lengths I will go to. I will get up early, stay on the water til dark, bring all the beer, sleep in a tent, drive near, drive far, trade in frequent flyer miles, tap out my vacation days, quit my job….anything it takes to fish.

To tell you the truth, very little about this sport has come naturally to me. I soak up information wherever I can. I eavesdrop in flyshops. I pay attention when guides compare notes about their day on the water. I scour your blogs and read your magazine articles. I am so incredibly grateful for each and every one of you who has reached out, welcomed me to the conversation, or even just allowed me to listen-in for a spell.

I’ve always had a ton of girlfriends who’ve been like sisters to me. But fly fishing has given me a whole mess of brothers! I love it. Brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and cousins. Maudlin as it may sound, it’s become an extended family. Like a good ole honky tonk bar, you never know if you’re going to be greeted with a grunt or smile. But the beer is cold, the jukebox is on and the neon sign lures you in just the same.

I suppose that is why I love to fly fish. To be a part of this wonderful, diverse, dysfunctional, passionate family. I didn’t plan on delivering such a sappy response to Tim’s blogpost, but what can I say? I guess I’m just a girlie girl at heart. A girlie girl who loves to fish.

And on a good day…a girlie girl who can really stick ‘em.

Willie Nelson is 75 years old today. I hope he gets his economic stimulus check right on his birthday, and he spends the government’s money on __________.

Oh, I don’t know. What do you think he should spend it on?

Happy Birthday Willie.

This post doesn’t have a lick to do with fishing, but I thought I’d throw it in the mix nonetheless…

If you’ve been following along, you know I recently launched WWLD 08. Also known as my own personal What Would Loretta Do Live Music Tour of the Texas Hill Country.

Friday night I went to see Marc Broussard at Antone’s. Now if you’re out of the loop on this one, Marc Broussard is a New Orleans bayou rocker with talent to spare. To look at him he’s your average-looking white kid, but close your eyes and he’s an oldschool Stax-style soul singer with Delta demons clipping at his heels. He had the joint jumping Friday night.

Loved his new song Must Be the Water and he looks like he was having so much fun when he played Where You Are and other hits from the Carencro album. Truthfully he and his band looked like they were having a blast up there, and the mood was infectious. At one point he eased off one tune into something odd and familiar.

What was it? I listened a second longer. Really? Are you kidding me…For real? Is he playing…..

The Bird???? By Prince?

Oh, that’s right. You heard me… Wawk!! Hallelujah! Whoa-oa-oa-oa. Whoa-oa-oa-oa.

It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that one. I’ve never seen Antone’s so crowded and Marc Broussard had the whole hot sweaty crowd doing a-not-so-brand-new-dance. And it’s called The Bird. Just as he had the entire mob squawkin’ & rockin’ he launched back into his own tunes. It was classic.

His signature song, Home is the epitome of hard-driving swampwater-rocknroll with a splash of voodoo-funk. Go download it off his Carencro album — I dare you not to like it. We all waited, desperately wanting to hear it. Then again dreading the start of it, knowing full-well it would be his last song of the night.

He kicked into Led Zeppelin, “You need schoolin’, Baby I’m not foolin…” and the crowd went nuts. Then quickly switched to ACDC Back In Black. Got everyone more in a frenzy. And then took it on Home to finish the night. It was spectacular.

**********************************

Then on Saturday it was the first ever Lonestar Jam with two stages of Texas bands all day long. It was a nice little festival smack dab in the middle of Austin, I liked it. Easy to navigate. Mostly college kids and youngsters trying to gnaw off their Under 21 wristbands. Actually, someone did ask me if I went to UT, which completely made me laugh. And lest that go to my head… I promptly ran into two of the college girls who look after Little Chick, and they called kept calling me “ma’am.”

I really only wanted to see Cross Canadian Ragweed and happened to arrive just as they took the stage. They were sublime, rocked as always. I will admit I’ve been a little slower than usual to fall in love with their latest album Mission California. But I’m totally there now. Fun to hear I Believe and Cry Lonely and In Oklahoma.

All-in-all my live music weekend was everything I’d hoped for. I’m going to fly high on my moments with Marc Broussard and CCR just a tad longer, and then it’s time to switch gears. After all, it’s WWLD 08 and the beat goes on…

Back in February I ventured down to Gruene to fish the Guadalupe and play with friends. Clear water, cold beer, hungry fish, lots of laughs.

It was a pretty great way to spend a day…

For the past 15 years Joey Lin has been working hard to help people find the fish they’re after…whether it be Texas, Argentina, the Bahamas or Mexico. A guide for about ten of those years, he now manages his own booking business Far Out Fishing Trips while splitting time between Argentina and Austin.

But before he was lost to our favorite cause, he was a professional photographer. He’s incredibly talented and I’m mesmerized by his sharp, fresh take on these far away places. But I have to say, exotic locations aside, I simply adore his Texas Hill Country pictures. All really good stuff. Below are a few of Joey’s images from various fishing adventures…

All images are copyright Joey Lin 200x.

And while you’re browsing around Joey’s blog, check out this footage from Casa Blanca Lodge in Mexico. He went last year with a large crew, and a member of the group compiled the video. Looks like a pretty fun trip, don’t you think? Instead of waiting for my engraved invitation, I’ll just go ahead and RSVP ‘yes’ for the next one they put together.

According to this Reuters news story, police in Congo have arrested 13 sorcerers accused of using black magic to steal men’s penises.

Uh….pardon?

If you read further into the article, you will see that in most cases, the penis isn’t actually missing, just critically downsized. While some doubt the veracity of these nefarious spells, members of the community are understandably rattled by the shrinkage to their manhood. According to one witness in Kinshasa, “It’s real. Just yesterday here, there was a man who was a victim. We saw. What was left was tiny.”

Oh my goodness where to start. Too many wisecracks, too many wisecracks. Hmmm. Can’t decide, can’t decide.

I think it’s best if I just refrain for now.

But c’mon, are we seriously going to pin this on black magic? Isn’t it usually the cold that’s to blame?

Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.

Poor Candy. I bet a fly fisherman wrote that. A fisherman who’s still snowed-in somewhere and getting a little grumpy.

Good heavens what if her sign had read, “HELLO, NEIGHBORS! What’s the magic bug on this river?”

Or, “HELLO, NEIGHBORS! What’s your favorite fishing spot?”

And there’s always my personal favorite from the super chipper trountnuts, “HELLO, NEIGHBORS! Are we living the dream, or what?”

I particularly like how the grumpy respondent with bad handwriting took extra care to place a comma after FUCK YOU. After all, expletives and a bad mood are not an excuse to abandon proper grammar.