Mud, Guts and Glory

Fly fishing is for the sophisticated, the rich, the people who define class. As Johnny Cash would say, “They’re probably drinking coffee (whiskey) and smokin’ big cigars”. For most of us, this could not be further from the truth. Well, maybe coffee and cigars… People tend to view fly fisherman as a fine sort, a lot are, but most fly fisherman get down and dirty. Even further down the line, a select few get downright muddy. No matter how you try to glorify it and put it on the pedestal for those who only fish dry flies, the attempt can only be futile. Those who are “trout only” turn their noses and think of you as living in a sod house as they say, “Oh, I’ve heard that can be fun”. Please, allow me to get my straw hat, flannel shirt (or no shirt), and overalls. It is time you finally went a carpin’.

The trip started out as a normal seven mile exploratory search around the lake shore. I was looking for trout who have remained unpressured for years along a section far too dangerous for boats. Fishing went very well, almost good enough to write about. I’m sure that you are reading this because you are not interested in 20″ trout. Right? On my way back, I found shallow water and saw fins drifting amongst the waves. I have read about this before. They call it the “freshwater bonefish” because you can see their fins moving about the surface, doing whatever it is that carp do. At times they would hurl their bulky bodies into the air so far that I would wonder how. Super-carp, that is the only reasonable answer. I stood in the mud awestruck, thinking how I could catch a beast like this. Digging through my fly boxes, I remembered tying a fly that I deemed curious looking. The Backstabber. Why? I have no idea. What does it look like? Well, like a classic poem, it is up for interpretation. In fact, you are wasting precious carp fishing time trying to figure it out. Buy one (or a dozen) and fish it.

Please take some time to read this letter that I am sending to the creator of the Backstabber.

Dear Jay Zimmerman,
You are the man!
Thanks,
David

Where was I… Oh yeah! The brilliance of the fly is unparralelled. The secret is in the physics. Eyes on top of the hook shank put added torque on the fly to make it ride hook point up, but if you affix dumbbell eyes without any dressing, it will lay on its side. The marabou is what aligns the hook vertically, no matter how it lands in the water, it will right itself on the bottom. If you play with this fly in the sink, or take it with you to play with in the bathtub, you will clearly see what this fly is all about. It is a delivery mechanism for a hook to ride point up cleverly disguised as a… ummm… Well, whatever it looks like, a carp is about to be bamboozled. Think about it. Carp, mouth down. Backstabber, hook up.

I tied on the fly and in seconds I was into fish. Time began running away and I was still a mile away from my car. A mile through the mud. It was dark and I had caught more carp than I could fit into a couple hours of fishing. I was bursting with joy and excitement. I had to tell my friends. I received the typical blow off from some and others gave me a heck yeah, but one remained keenly interested. Sure enough, he’s English. A man who goes by the name Adrian, who happens to be a fellow guide. We had loosely planned a trip to chase these fish around the flats, but never really got around to it. In the mean time, I continued fishing after work until sunset, giving carp their daily workout. Also catching those pesky trout and pike.

The day finally came where Adrian and I both had some free time. We hiked down to the ol’ carp hole to give it a whirl. I told him that he would and showed him how to fish the fly. In no time, I saw a bent rod out of the corner of my eye. I smiled, knowing his feeling. “Absolutely incredible”, Those were his first words upon landing it. I needed no other words. I knew. I had spread the disease of the grungy fisherman.

The moral of the story is (if you are still reading), if your friends make fun of you for carp fishing, you need new friends. It takes guts and a strong forearm, the payoff is glory even if it is just in your own head. This post is out of the norm for me, but the only life changing thing about carp fishing is catching carp. I’ll take the easy way out and post a big carp picture.

20/20 Hindsight, Foresight Perscription Needed

Trail maps usually list the length of the trail followed by the difficulty. In this case, things seemed normal. There were three levels of difficulty; Easy, Moderate, and Difficult. The map showed “Trail: 1.2 Miles; Difficulty: Difficult; Elevation Change: 800 Feet”. In my mind it said, “Trail: 1.2 Miles“… A walk in the park. In New Mexico, every single element here is out to kill you. There is no soft cushion of grass or a nice tree limb out there to hold you up when you fall. If there is, there is a rattlesnake in that grass and a black widow in that tree. I had forgotten what an unrelenting place this is. Soft and well worn Colorado spoiled me. No worries about cactus and yucca, just big wide trails. Colorado does have some tough trails made for equally tough people. I know trails that have taken lives. Each time I hit a “trail” in New Mexico, I find myself surprised. However, it is no surprise to me that the fishing a quarter of a mile upstream is so good, if you make it alive.

Looking over the map, lights turned green and I was off with haste. Within 5 minutes I was bleeding and suffering from a twisted ankle. 10 minutes, torn shirt and bruised elbow. 1 hour, soaked from the shoulder down. 1 hour and 10 seconds, the smile on my face would not go away. As I chased fish too big for the stream down river, I dropped into holes that instantly dropped four to five feet from ankle deep. I was wet and sore, bleeding and smiling, cold and thinking.

Losing track of time is not alright when you are deep in a canyon. The sun sets at five and sunset is closer to six, giving a false idea of how much light you have left. With the idea that the trail is 1.2 miles, I poked around the stream a fraction of a bit too long, the fishing was almost too good. Before long, I was fishing in the actual sunset and light faded quickly. Not knowing where exactly I was, I figured simply hiking up the steep hill behind me would reveal the trail. A shortcut, back country style. When I could see the point, to my right, there was also another parking lot. I had hiked in well over a mile upstream. I remembered passing a large dead ponderosa and could see it in the distance, but light was fading fast. It was time to put the screws to the hike. Scrambling over sage and cactus, the incline began to become steeper with each step. Then again, the burning in my legs could have simulated the effect.

When in peril, sunsets begin to fade exponentially. The same can be said about life. They say that just before you die, your life flashes before your eyes. I began to think that if your life flashes before your eyes like the fading twilight, the time is not nearly long enough. Before I die, I want to relive my life entirely or not at all. Every scratch, bruise, the time I crashed my bike for the first time, when I laid in some long lost trail for hours not able to move on, the heartbreaks, and every moment in between. They also say hindsight is 20/20, but no matter how well we can see something we can not feel it, nor can we bring it back. If we planned it all to work out perfectly in the end, where would we be in life. If we saw the future, we would know what to expect and every moment leading to that one event and would be diminished by knowing. I had found my old tree. It came to me then, the tree never asked to be in this place. It just happened to tumble here and take root. Such is life. We can plan and make goals, but our actions do not make our future position. Our lives are one big beautiful tumbling accident. Sometimes, we take root and grow where we never expected. If we try to change it, our roots will be in sand and we will not be able to grow to our full potential.

The Ghost of the Ark and Other Conjured Spirits

Sometime in March, somewhere in the ethereal world of note-making, it was penciled in. Maybe a floating red X on the grid of a calendar that marked Sundays and new moons, but never an old one. Calendars who document the past and loosely plan the future can also be viewed as being human in a way. We vividly remember the good and bad times, but only look to the future. We know that the sixth is on Thursday, but the things that happen that day are up to the Gods that dictate randomly unplanned events in life as the lesser Gods follow up and mark a black X on the days that have passed. The X’s creating a trail like breadcrumbs on a path that is leading somewhere unknown. It is that essential element of life that leads us here. Those damned black X’s. Sometimes it feels as though they know. They are on the inside, collecting memos from unseen corporate entities that flank us like hidden armies in the distance. Yet, we find ourselves waiting for the calendar to be that one day that may or may not be set in stone, marked loosely in red.

The asphalt pushes tar between cracks in an aged road that thumps beneath tires. Rhythmically, like a progressive jazz drummer in a metal band, he somehow keeps track of time in his odd way. The seconds melt away in 13/9 time as I build polyrhythms by beating thumbs against the steering wheel. The waiting game. Waiting while moving. Irony in motion. I was not the only one in this predicament. From the north came a man more than willing to meet halfway. Sanders. Although I can not speak for him, I’m sure he was in his car singing along to the radio, I would like to think he was milling over some last minute paperwork. As a friend, he made the trip. Like old friends, we met.

Life catches up to everyone at some point. That calendar and the X never marks the day your life changes completely, it just happens. As humans, we are accepting and adapting to those changes all of the time. Our greatest works come from some of the most troubling times. Our moment to shine is often humbled by our minds terrible way of holding on to matters that are out of our hands. Matters that may not matter at all in the grand scheme of things. Since Sanders and I found ourselves in the same place at the same time, our plans were now etched and we had to deal with our matters in the only way possible. To fish.

After a small tumble, Sanders said that it wasn’t a good sign. I know otherwise. A fall, a broken finger, bruised and bloody elbow, torn waders, all mean that your day will end with a bang. Maybe that bang doesn’t happen on the river, maybe a realization long after the fact. In time, that not so great day of fishing turns into a reflection of why you are on Earth. A rememberence of being alive. The day the world threw stones and you stood up. You shook your fist and the world fought you tooth and nail. In the end, you find that she was against you but you made her bend to your will just slightly. A day that you inevitably won. A day that would shake the foundation of any other man. At the end of it all, I couldn’t ask for more fitting friend, a more fitting fisherman, a more fitting writer.

Meanwhile, in a snow covered canyon, flurries of thoughts left fresh powder in a room heated by a small wood stove fueled by perseverance. Something overlooked in our push-button society, but not by any who has ever collected wood. Around a table we sat, cultivating a garden of feathers and fur between us. Much like the conjuration of a spirit, three minds in a trance, spirits were created as spirits of another kind were consumed. Alchemy dripped from pillars of brass and steel. The fur of a squirrel, a wire of gold, the eye of a newt, sew together on steel barbs, just another magic trick in the book. Does it float? Will it swim? Does it fly? This was the mantra in the back of our minds and we all knew it. It is all part of the order. Behind the spinning of thread and wire, of bead and fur, of feather and glass, we created. New life was born, new red X’s appeared. Thank you Erin and Jay for being welcoming as usual.

The First…

Well, I went and did it. Here’s the part where I clinch tightly and see what happens.

The Innerworkings…

I have been thinking lately that my little and slightly unknown page is in need for a bit of an overhaul. In the next few weeks you will see a bit more on the site. I am going to begin by adding a couple features.  ”Fishnerdproof” and “Backcountrybugs” will be the first two additions. The next phase will be videos. The first step is YouTube, if I get good at it, I will then move to Vimeo. I was thinking one field test and one bug per month here, nothing too crazy.

Fishnerdproof will comprise of items that I actually use in the field and certain tests on certain items to ascertain the most functional products on the market. I am not asking for freebies, if they end up on my doorstep, you can guarantee your item will be torn, broken, smashed, shredded, or otherwise destroyed in the harsh New Mexico environment (AKA Fishnerd Testing Facility). All this stuff will be tested in real world situations and beyond that, in the same way my gear is tested. These “Reviews” will not happen often, but when they do, I’ll try to make them fun!

Backcountrybugs will be a tutorial place of sorts where I will demonstrate patterns that work, rather than untested flies (salmon flies are an exception to the rule). I might even talk about tips and new techniques to use when you sit behind a vise. I’ll also be covering “Outside-the-box” ways to use normal or old material. I may even have a guest type thing going on when I tie with other people. Who knows… Basically, it will be a tying resource.

The page will remain the same. I will write. That is all. Recently, I have become tired of seeing a lot of what I am seeing in the Fly Fishing world. It is not a popularity contest out there. It is not about egomaniacs. It is about the art, the inner-workings of the mind, the philosophy of the river, the peace of the chaotic outdoors, and so many more reasons. It is why we have something to write about all of the time. It isn’t a sales gimmick or a status symbol. It is fun, it is a passion, it is a love, and a way of life for many. A way of life that is sometimes a struggle.

I hope you enjoy the added features for 2013!

Posts to come next month…

Fishing with Sanders and tying with friends

Ice-out lake fishing

Early season hiking

The PT post

I know you guys have been waiting for a lot of this already, I have been a bit wrapped up with learning this new life.

…And Then, There Was Chaos

There is no order without chaos, or at least that is how the old adage plays. As silly as it may sound, this statement is not as confounding as people make it out to be. It is not the age old question of the chicken or the egg. In fact, as philosophies evolve, we often realize that some things can not be put under the microscope to be analyzed. Often, our energy is often spent more efficiently and wisely elsewhere. Frankly, the statement of order and chaos is just that, a statement. Some tend to get lost in the definition of it all. Lost in some kind of philosophical wormhole of paradoxical bliss. We find the answer is still the statement, because the statement is the answer. We should really be asking what the question is.

Waking up on the wrong side of the river (in the city) comes with complications that I have yet to find a friendly relationship with. To bring a good example to light, traffic. As much as the highway seems like a river, it is far from behaving anything like one. It goes both up and down hills and generally breaks all of the rules that Newton set into stone. These were my thoughts as I drove to work, preparing a fake smile to people who expected it. Life had become a pattern. A pattern with very limited time to accomplish the things that I wanted. I watched people following the same pattern, some in love with that life, some just continuing on because they assume there is no other choice. Something had to give.

Around lunch I received a text, “Are you coming this weekend?”  Even though it was only a question, I had to say yes. I did this to force myself out of a pattern that I had grown so used to. Such a dry life spent waiting for days off to fish. The only excitement in my life was found drifting the fly down a mildly tumultuous path to serve as a platter for the upscale type of fish. After my fun had been spent, the situation became real again and it was back to the pattern. My escape plan had been forged into an alchemists dream. Twenty-four hours to move from Colorado Springs to Taos.

After work, I packed my things to travel to greener pastures. Pastures that weren’t really green at all. Pastures who are more of a conglomeration of sand, mountains, and water. I knew the cut in pay, I knew that it might mean longer hours, I knew there might be less time on the water, at the very least I would be talking fishing. This was the means to dedicate myself more to the sport and restoration, more time to write, more time to be creative, more time to live. There is no paycheck in the world that could take me away. After four hours of driving through mountains with snow-packed roads and police pulling stranded citizens from the side of the road in unrelenting snow, I had arrived at my new home. Taos, New Mexico. The land of milk and honey… Or maybe just art and fly fishing.

Now, a month has gone by and my trout senses are reset to New Mexico. The chaos and dust has settled. In the midst of it all, I have still found a way to fish being only 20 minutes away from great water. Through all of the chaos, life just ironed itself out. Around every turn, every hiccup that may have ended in disaster, it all worked out and life hangs in the balance of chaos and order. Chaos that seems to settle if life continues to follow the path of the river. Tumultuous, yet controlled by mother nature. I’ll continue drifting this canyon until my time comes to reach the ocean.

Vote. Name. Win.

I have never done this before and I feel like I am a prostitute now. At least I’m not regifting! However, I know there are a handful of people out there (3 or so…) that enjoy bugs that I tie. Due to some goings on, I have been looking into some very classic patterns to revisit. Because they are not my design, I feel that it is alright to put the ol’ Dave twist on them and give them away. The only problem… I have no idea if they work or which one is the best. I am thinking to do a monthly thing where people vote on their favorite classic revisit, name it, give half a dozen away, then posting a tutorial on the winning bug. So, here goes the test run of this.

I was sifting through the annuls of history and speaking with a few people riverside about bugs. It seems that people really enjoy the pheasant tail (PT), most using it as their “Go To” bug. I have never been huge into the world of the PT, they are usually a bit bulky for my taste. Frank Sawyer never meant for the PT to be a plump insect. He did mean for it to have gills and a paddle tail though. I really enjoyed digging around the bug and if you are a fan of history, this fly has traded hands over the ages to become what we use today. I would have tied this traditionally, but it seems that the tradition of the PT is to modify it.

This leads us into the give away type thing that I am doing here. The rules are very simple. Comment below, tell me which fly you choose as your favorite and name it. The most popular bug wins and the person with the best name for that bug wins a half-dozen. I’ll even ship it internationally. Here goes!

Contestant “A”

Contestant “B”

 

Contestant “C”

The winner will receive six flies Of the winning pattern tied on size 14 Tiemco 206BL (not cutting corners here). Tied by: David Goodrich… With love?

*Contestant “A” spun my camera out of control, so I touched it up by adding contrast and dropping the saturation. The others are untouched.