Fly Fish Chick

According a recent CNN article, some would-be thieves didn’t realize they were cruisin’ for a bruisin’ when they tried to rob an Australian nightclub. A group of hardcore bikers called The Southern Cross Cruiser Club were actually holding their group meeting at the same bar and foiled the robbers’ nefarious plot in a gritty display of heroism.

Despite the fact that the masked perpetrators were wielding knives and machetes, the bikers attacked them with chairs and tables, chased them into the parking lot, threw a table at the getaway car, and hogtied one of the guys with electrical tape.

Badass.

Apparently I’m not the only one who thinks so. The Southern Cross Cruiser website is on fire with people from around the globe leaving messages on their guestbook, celebrating their barroom bravery.

So it got me thinking…had it been a meeting of fly fishermen instead of bikers, would the outcome have been the same? Would anglers kick some robber butt?

Perhaps we need to be more specific. For example, would it make a difference if it were a meeting of flytyers versus casting instructors? Freshwater guides or saltwater captains? Outfitters or well-outfitted clients? Outdoor journalists or new media filmmakers? Steelheaders or bass fishermen?

I can say this. If the robbers had masks that said NESTLE or t-shirts that said I [HEART] DONNY BEAVER, then my money’s on TC from the Trout Underground to clean the floor with them.

And it probably goes without saying I’d feel pretty safe if the boys from Buster Wants to Fish were there to unleash all hell.

But what do you think? Who within our “quiet” sport is most likely to take care of business in a barroom brawl?

Yesterday was another great day in the Texas Hill Country. I fished the Guadalupe with a few friends, and we had an absolute blast. A front had moved in the night before so the fishing was a little off kilter at first. The wind stayed strong throughout the day, but when the sun eased up, the fishing really turned on for us.

All the credit goes to Banning who persevered through our dry spell and ended our team slump in a blaze of glory. Apparently when he starts to catch fish, there’s just no stopping him.

I had a couple of small connections, but at the end of the day I finally caught up with a fat & feisty rainbow that really gave me a run for my money. But eventually I got him all the way to the net and then merrily on his way.

Man, it was a nice fish.

Afterwards we grabbed the crew from Gruene Outfitters and walked over to Gruene Hall for some live honkytonk music and cold beer. We shared fishing stories and skinny dipping stories and basically laughed until we cried. All in all, it was a damn good way to spend a Tuesday…rainbow trout, plenty of sunshine, good people, Ernest Tubb cover songs, and Texas beer.

Somebody better pinch me.

I’ll be honest, I used to think allergies and heat strokes were for losers. I saw them as psychosomatic urban myths, brought on by the more serious condition of having no spine.

But then I moved to Austin and discovered the unique hell that is cedar fever, and then I spent last July in Montana with day after day of 100+ degree heat.

Sweet mother of God it was hot in Montana last summer.

One day in particular was distinctly painful. I went for a run at high noon, and to tell you the truth, I never really bounced back from that error in judgment. Call me Icarus but I really thought I was immune to the heat. I’m from Texas for heavens sake.

Texas, where we have air-conditioning.

Dripping in sweat and hubris I still assumed I would bounce back in time to go fishing. Later that day, we assembled a motley crew at the river, waiting for the sun to ease up a bit before we launched our early evening float. We knocked about town trying to cool off indoors, but to no avail. The heat was making me feel sick in a way I really couldn’t shake.

We wandered down to the Trout Shop since they had the best air-conditioning in Craig, but it still wasn’t getting the job done. I was languishing on a bench, melting against a wall of waders. I must have looked fairly peeked – not to mention a total deterrent for paying customers – because they scooped me up and placed me in the beer cooler.

Finally a bit of relief! I perched on a produce box and tried to breathe in as much of the frosty air as I could, a weak attempt to cool myself from the inside-out. Customers on the other side would open the glass doors to select a six-pack, and I would startle them by handing them the one they were reaching for just before they grabbed it. It was a hoot. Things were looking up.

But the moment I was summoned from the beer cooler, I felt sick again. I definitely wasn’t up for rowing anyone down the river. I’m not sure why we didn’t pull the plug on the whole operation, because frankly everyone was feeling gamy and the general mood was pretty sour. But for some reason we decided to pile four adults plus Little Chick into one skiff.

About fifteen minutes into this shit-show, it was pretty clear I was either going to faint or throw up. So I scooted up to the very front of the boat and curled up in the fetal position on the floor. The knee-lockers had been removed so whenever I did open my eyes, I had a clear view of the bright blue evening sky and my mother’s fly line whizzing back and forth over my head. I probably should have been in a hospital with an IV at this point, but hey, she was keyed-in on rising fish that were keyed-in on caddis fluttering all around us.

Eventually my team took pity on me, albeit begrudgingly. We rowed back up to the ramp where we put in, canceled our shuttle and raced home. I don’t remember much else except shivering in bed and waking up the next morning with the worst headache of my life.

Needless to say I was benched for the next few days.

To cheer up the heat stroke victim, Little Chick had her own stroke of genius. She recruited my mother, and together they announced we were all going to bake cupcakes. Ugh! Normally I don’t get involved with the grandmother-granddaughter cooking adventures (I am not at home in the kitchen) but I was bored out of my mind and decided it was better to bake cupcakes than to bake myself in the sun again.

Strangely, we all got really into it. I can’t think of any activity, other than fishing, that would have kept the three of us bicker-free for three whole days. My mother and Little Chick did all the cooking, and I was the master decorator. I focused solely on fishing-themed cupcakes, and I have to say, I think I discovered a latent talent. Who knew I had such skills with icing?

For days we went all over the canyon delivering our fly-fishing cupcakes. Everyone was very polite and mustered up the proper gratitude, but I’m pretty sure they were whispering behind my back, assuming I’d finally lost my mind from the heat.

Perhaps. But tell the truth, who doesn’t crave a little sweet treat after getting baked on the river?

Plus, these cupcakes were medicinal.

The Guadalupe River, circa 1975. Between The Hunt Store and Crider’s.

The Guadalupe River, circa this past Monday morning. Between the alarm clock and my todo list.

I cannot tell a lie. I had to sneak away this morning and do a little fishing on the Guadalupe. Between flu bugs and birthday parties and bronchitis and thunderstorms, it’s been hard to find time on the water. So I decided to play hooky this morning – in the name of Presidents’ Day of course!

I think our forefathers would totally be okay with it. Based on the following quotations, they sound like fairly level-headed guys. Hell, they sound like fisherman.

“If I had eight hours to chop down a tree, I’d spend six hours sharpening my ax.” – Abraham Lincoln

This pretty much sums up my preparation for today’s fishing adventure. I spent all afternoon yesterday readying myself for a fast-break at the break of dawn this morning. I filled the car with gas. I went to Target and purchased a memory stick for my new digital camera. I charged the digital camera. Attached new leader to my fly line. Buckled down and put all my tippet in a new Ziploc. Lined up my waders and boots in the kitchen. Tidied up my gear bag which, although filled with trash, still had remnants of a price tag on it. Moved things around on the lanyard. Moved them back into place.

Then I’d say I fished for about an hour and a half.

“Be sure to put your feet in the right place, then stand firm.” — Abraham Lincoln

And wear good wading boots.

“He was incapable of fear, meeting personal dangers with the calmest unconcern.” — Thomas Jefferson describing George Washington

This also describes the one fish I hooked up with this morning. With complete calm and unconcern, the trout simply unhooked himself as if I’d greased the fly in butter, laughed at me over his shoulder, and swam away.

“It is better to offer no excuse than a bad one.” — George Washington

Yep, George was a fisherman, allright.

“Most folks are about as happy as they make their minds up to be.” — Abraham Lincoln

All I can say is I’m on cloud nine after my morning on the water.

“You cannot escape the responsibility of tomorrow by evading it today.” – Abraham Lincoln

Hmmm, I suppose I violated this one. But couldn’t we argue that the act of fishing is not an act of evasion, but is actually quite essential? Certainly that’s not a revolutionary idea with this crowd.

Either way, when you start your Monday standing in the middle of a beautiful river and the sun is gleaming, the outlook is pretty bright.

Hail to the chiefs.

My buddy Lance Gleason is a Missoula-based outfitter and fishing guide. He owns 406 Outfitters & Productions and put together this video called “Getting Guided“. He’s got some pretty cool footage, check it out…

Since the moment my daughter, Little Chick, picked up a flyrod, she has received no shortage of instruction, advice and input. Diligently she would practice with her Orvis 4-wt seven-foot rod. And finally last year one tip brought everything into focus for her: Lift your rod like you’re bringing a telephone up to your ear, hold it there long enough to say, “Hello, how are you doing?” and then set it back down.

All of a sudden her casting was looking good!

Unfortunately the fish on The Missouri refused to reward her stick-to-it-iv-ness and all-around positive attitude. Here and there she managed to sit in my lap and “land” a few trout that one of us had hooked for her. But her own fish…that still eluded her.

This past July we traipsed over to the Blackfoot for a few days. My mother and I had a pretty good feeling that this was going to be Little Chick’s moment of glory. But we didn’t dare say so to anyone other than ourselves. And even then, only in a hushed whisper.

Besides Little Chick was in heaven anyway. She’d been trying for so long I think she thought casting was fishing – and she was perfectly delighted to do just that. But after lunch on our first day on the Blackfoot, she put a short cast off the front of the raft in some fast water and CHOMP! A fish came right down on it.

We all started screaming “HIT IT! HIT IT! HIT IT!” as if she had a world-record tarpon strike her line.

But Little Chick didn’t move a muscle.

Immediately we started laying on the speech that we’ve all given ourselves a million times…how it’s all about the “take”…getting them to eat it is the most difficult part…congratulations are definitely still in order.

But Little Chick didn’t seem excited at all. In fact she looked upset. I leaned in for a little tete-a-tete because she had a question she was too embarrassed to ask out loud. “Mommy,” she asked with tears swelling in her eyes. “What does ‘HIT IT’ mean?”

Oh, shit.

Of all the instruction, tips, and advice she’d received over the years…we forgot one fairly critical nugget. So once again we were falling over ourselves trying to offer instruction.

Day Two on the Blackfoot was sublime. I was having my own troutfest in the front of the boat because no one else wanted to fish. I couldn’t get Little Chick back in the game. But eventually I got on this crazy, ridiculous bank with lots of grabby little fish. And I noticed her taking notice.

Little Chick loves rummaging through a fly box. So we bribed her with a trip through the hopper section – her favorite. And we cut her a deal. If she fished this bank, she could pick any bug in the box and then keep it.

Needless to say she picked a pink and purple hopper that looked like it should have the BARBIE logo printed on it.

Well, with the Barbie Hopper she got a take on her first cast. We screamed HIT IT, and this time she did, but didn’t manage to set the hook. Nevertheless she was intrigued. Her posture straightened and she tuned us out. Little Chick was on a mission.

She had two more misses but you could see she was really into it. And finally it happened! Fourth time was a charm. She made a perfect cast and BOOM. Fish chomped down on it, and we didn’t even have to say HIT IT. She saw it eat and she set the hook, all on her own. The biggest little trout in history.

So this is a fishing story that’s really more of a love story. I have never seen Little Chick so happy. Christmas morning, birthdays, even the time she lost her first tooth…this surpassed them all. Little Chick fell madly in love with her fish and I was the proudest mommy on the planet.

It was a happy day on the Blackfoot.

 happy valentine’s day sweet baby girl…

Last week Buster Wants To Fish and Way Upstream both wrote posts about a recent study that reveals Americans are spending less and less time participating in outdoor activities such as fishing, camping and hiking. Needless to say this news strikes a sad chord.

Now since I was an English major who managed to get through four years of college without reading any books cover-to-cover, I chose not to click-through and read about the actual study. I trust these bloggers so I’m just going to adopt their take on the findings. And both posts agree that we all have a vital role in exposing our children to the outdoors as well as the concept of conservation. Not just to improve our scores on the next study, but because (as we all know) it will make them better, happier people.

I’m lucky that my Little Chick loves to do anything al fresca — fishing, camping, horseback riding, rafting – so that makes it easy to get her out and about. But there’s always room for more. Given the results of the study I wondered what else I could be doing with her…for her. What else can I do to seal her natural love for the outdoors so it doesn’t start to seep away over time.

I started thinking about what my parents did with me when I was a kid, and almost immediately my mind was traveling down memory lane. Because our family vacations were always outdoor vacations.

We lived in Texas and used to roadtrip to Colorado every summer in my dad’s burnt orange Bronco. Usually we’d sleep in a matching orange tent, but sometimes we’d splurge on a campy cabin. My dad had a collapsible combination spinning-reel-flyrod that often delivered dinner. We’d fish and hike and pan for gold. And no one would confuse one of our picnics with one of those fancy spreads in Martha Stewart Living.

But this was living. These trips were fueled by good Texas outlaw songs — all of which live on my ipod and in my soul to this very day. One of the albums I associate with these Colorado vacations is Willie Nelson’s ‘The Troublemaker’ — ironically a collection of gospel songs. Listening to Willie Nelson sing gospel is like giving a dog his pill all wrapped-up in a slice of cheese. It tastes so good going down, that you don’t mind doing something that’s actually good for you.

With our windows rolled down and the Rocky Mountains as our unwavering audience, we’d barrel down life’s highway singing loudly (and badly) to Willie’s versions of Uncloudy Day, and Will The Circle Be Unbroken and Sweet Bye & Bye.

I don’t have scientific proof that these vacations directly influenced my love for the outdoors, but I do have wonderful memories and some hysterical family photos that prove we had a hell-of-a-good time. Mea culpa for this self-indulgent post, but I had a ball seeing these pictures again, so I had to share a few of them here.

A big THANK YOU to Buster Wants to Fish and Way Upstream for reading about that study so I didn’t have to. Many thanks for triggering some dusty memories that are over three-decades old.

And just like my parents did with me, I’m going to teach my daughter that in order to appreciate the true beauty of an uncloudy day, you have to be outside.

A picnic just isn’t a picnic without the tangy zip of Miracle Whip and Marlboro Reds.

I really don’t know what to say about the socks. But you have to appreciate my bold combination of stripes & tye-dye.

Trout. It’s What’s For Dinner.

(Don’t worry, we’re all catch-and-release these days.)

My parents don’t seem into this family portrait quite like I am.

I was just a Fly Fish Chicklette, ready for my rafting adventure…and apparently some construction work.

Colorado. Speaks for itself.

Did I mention we lived in Texas and listened to a lot of Willie?

For those of you still suffering frigid temperatures and cabin fever I thought I’d share some tunes to match your Winter Blues.

And despite a gorgeous weekend in Texas filled with bright skies and breezy temps, the only thing I caught was the flu. So looks like I’m singing ‘em too…

Cuddle up, double down and down the hatch. Push play to commiserate.

Andy Idema just quit his J.O.B. — and he did it all for you.

Initially he started a flyfishing web site as a labor of love, something on the side. But recently, Andy told his boss to ‘Take This Job And Shove It’. Just so he could devote all of his time to The Fly Fishing Community.

The Fly Fishing Community is an online resource for anglers, guides, outfitters, lodge owners and flyshops. Features include a blog directory, fishing reports, discussion boards, and of course, the ability to share (& flaunt) fish pictures and videos.

Signing up is fast, easy and totally free, so check it out. C’mon what else do you have to do? Certainly your boss doesn’t expect you to work on a Friday.

And if so, you know what to tell ‘em…