Flyosophy

But not for the reasons you may think

First-off let me start with a story…I wonder if it’s gotten to the point where the audience collectively groans, or inches their story-mats closer to the screen when “Story Time” is announced.

The year was 1981 – It was a beautiful fall day.  The Maple trees (which give us Maple syrup) had just begun to turn, the shadows were long as the sun dipped far too early to end a day of playing and the park, and my younger sister, Colleen, was following me home with a beloved but creepy looking rag doll in her little hands.

Then the shadows grew darker, a cold breeze picked up from out of nowhere.  I heard a sound that caused the hairs on the back of my neck to straighten.   It was the demand of the local low-grade bully, Chris Hardy.  He called out to me from one of the driveways we had passed.

He was by himself – naturally because no one likes an asshole.  He was a sixth grader, which meant he was on the second floor of the elementary school we shared, and next year he’d be on the 3^rd.  He was much bigger than me, and even had the beginnings of a blond douche-stache above the the upperlip which had issued several discouraging words and more than a few I did not yet know the meanings of.

“Hey retard, where are you going?”  At the ripe old age of seven I was still widely known as the village idiot due to my speech impediment.

Had my little sister not been there I would have executed my patented escape plan, which was to beat feet to one of the homes of the Greater Bullies.  See the neighborhood operated on the feudal system, there were run of the mill bullies and over-bullies, bully lords (a few ladies,) under-bullies, bullies on crusade, and naturally the shit-bums.  A huge percentage of my young life was spend building fortifications of various clubhouses to defend against bully attack…ironically if no bully assaulted the fort that the “club” would disintegrate into splinter groups…one of which would attack.  I myself – in later years – would go on to some fame as the man who reformed the system.  See, I rarely would beat up the younger kids; I would make them fight gladiator style for my amusement.  If you think kids who had been friends for years won’t turn on each other at the drop of a hat because some older kid bellows “Let the Games…BEGIN!!!!” You would be wrong.

Keep in mind this was all before video games – “Bully” is such a negative term, this was entertainment for the most part, and as a younger kid you would often seek these folk out and bother them.  Most would just toss you around and feel horrible if they ever actually hurt you.  The dog wouldn’t even bark at them since canines can sense the difference between good-natured rough-housing and true violence.  Some, like Chris, had honest streaks of malice.

The Greater Bullies would never torment a 4 year old like my sister.  I knew I could out-run Chris (he was a fat-ass) I had less faith he would leave my sister in peace.  As it turns out I was right…

Chris ripped the rag doll from her arms, tossed it into the air, and then struck it with the bat he had been whacking a tether-ball with.  One of the disproportionately stuffed arms of the rag doll flew off.  Colleen, to her credit, didn’t cry, even when I handed her the amputated arm.

The cold-hearted bully then thrust the bat into my chest, and told me to take a swing at the doll.

Not wanting to catch a beating, I did as he commanded.  Tossing the doll as high as I could, and gripping the bat with both hands.  Unfortunately for the dim-wit, the beating I was concerned about would have come from my mother, so the instant I was certain both his beady eyes were fixed on the doll, I hit him with the bat as hard as I could.

The tactical genius of this ploy kind of losses its luster when I mention it was a wiffle-ball bat.

The yellow plastic bounced off Chris’s ribs with a hollow whimper.  He did not die as I had hoped, he wasn’t even horribly wounded.  God I hate it when a plan fails to come together…

We stood looking at each other for the longest second of my life.  He stunned that the retard had out-witted him, I shocked that the rounded light-plastic weapon, so like a lightsaber, hadn’t sliced him in twain.

Then it was off to the races.  The bat fell to the ground and I was tearing down the street, I didn’t even take the time to draw the “Z” in the dirt with my Zipps sneakers.  Chris, to his credit, ran faster than he ever had.  I could feel his presence close behind me.  The thundering of the rubber soles on the concrete was deafening, and I watching in abject horror as our long shadows followed us, stretching out like the black hand of despair and ruin from across the street.

I also, out of the corner of my eye saw my other sister Peggy.  I really didn’t think much of it.

I probably ran for a good two houses before I realized Chris wasn’t following me.  I no longer heard two sets of foot-falls; in fact I heard the sound of someone crying.

I turned around and witnessed something in the 3^rd person I had seen probably a billion times from the first, Peggy kicking ass.

She had knocked Chris down, and with two fistfuls of his hair was dragging his face along the concrete sidewalk.  The low-grade bully was screaming like a bitch as his legs and arms flailed wildly yet impotently like a man who is not Chuck Norris trying to swim through land.  Peggy never said a word…which was a bad sign.  If my sister attacks you verbally, you’re psyche will be destroyed and you’ll need counseling.  Should she suck in her cheeks and bite on them…well good-luck, nice knowing you.

It was a truly epic beat-down.  Now the part that you need to understand is that my sister Peggy is not a brute.  She was routinely bullied and harassed by younger kids, and though she could have easily swatted them into non-existence she never did.  In fact one memorable winter, some bitch-ass punk (or was it a punk-ass bitch?) broke her glasses with a snowball.  Peggy picked up the pieces, heartbroken.  I naturally flew into a berserker rage and assaulted her assailants – getting my head handed to me in the process (I got in a lot of fights but I was never very good at it.)  Peggy then entered the fray and destroyed them easily…she needed the middleman though…

As for Chris…he was never much of a threat after that and likely decided to torment other kids from other streets.  I’m sure to this day he is probably still an over-sized dip with an under-sized penis which delights in small-minded entertainment, bullying and oppression, taking no delight in who he is merely what…or as society names such people, a police officer.

I present this story as “a day in the life” there are several others I could have chosen.

So now I present the following thought.  How do you think I take it when people say, “You must love the movie a ‘River Runs Through It?’”

Sure I enjoy fly fishing, and the movie has some pretty moments.  It is not, however, a fly fishing movie.  It is, as the tag-line suggests, a movie about a family.  The movie is really about being a lousy brother.

Now, first off, I just want to mention that I am critiquing the movie, not the written story and certainly not the man, Norman Maclean, himself.  So far as I know it is a pure fiction, I thought about doing research but then thought that would be cheating…ought to critique something on how it presents itself.  If you haven’t seen it then SPOILER ALERT – I will say it is a good movie, in that it tells a story well,

“Each one of here today will at one time in our lives look upon a loved one who is in need and ask the same question: We are willing help, Lord, but what, if anything, is needed? For it is true we can seldom help those closest to us. Either we don’t know what part of ourselves to give or, more often than not, the part we have to give is not wanted. And so it those we live with and should know who elude us. But we can still love them – we can love completely without complete understanding.”

Reverend Maclean

The first time I saw it I was on a date with my first real girlfriend.  She was sweet and nice and ended up becoming a nun, that’s right after Sean Juan a woman can only turn to the Lord…or drink…or go insane.  She was so happy leaving the theater and asked me if I loved the movie, because the main character was so much like me.

I just asked her if she thought I was a horrible brother.

Consider the scene where Norman, takes his younger brother to the bad side of town, where he knows that Paul is going to either be killed or beaten to a pulp at the very least.  The story-telling of the movie is superb, so the audience knows exactly what is in his mind, there are no twists or turns, he essentially brings his brother to his end.

I had my fists clenched the first time I saw it.  I am the oldest brother in my family I have two younger ones – granted they don’t fly fish but they aren’t screw-ups either.  I felt myself in his position and I could think of a thousand solutions.  Beat up Brad Pitt, pay off his debts, shut up nut up and scream “GAWD OF THUNDAAAAAR!!!!” and drive-through that barn place and kill every man you come across (I mean its not like there is CSI back then you would so get away with it)…better still you were in the forestry service blow the place to hell and gone with dynamite.  Do anything, but meekly drive off leaving your brother behind.  Heck, kill him yourself…at least that’s honest, coward.

I hated Norman, for nearly 15 years I got testy if somebody suggested I watch that movie or that I must like it.  Granted, I was a teenager then, and a fairly angry one at that.  Times have changed.  Not that I like admitting that I’m getting older, or worse wiser.  Recently, I watched it again.  Still clenched fists, but this time I felt more pity for Norman than dislike, I still think I would have gone berserker with a sledgehammer – but I no longer feel that would be right – but make no mistake I can and I would!!!  GAWD OF THUNDAAAAAR!!!!!!

Now I’ll leave you with one final question, good luck answering it.  Do I hate this movie because of what the characters did or didn’t do, or because I fear they may have been right?  Or worse caught in an impossible situation.  I feel very few of us if given the choice between suffering ourselves or having to watch a loved one suffer would choose to avoid it, the cliché prayer of a person to take another’s place.  I honestly believe that.  However, that is not the way the game is played.  If Norman did as I suggested, and dynamited that gambling den, would it have saved his brother?  This wasn’t cancer or some impossible illness.  Just pure simple jackassery, the younger brother died for no good reason.  If Norman had kicked Paul’s ass daily, would it have helped?  Are we truly as feeble and helpless as he looked driving off, or worse are there pains our loved ones bear alone that we do not even know about, or even unknowable?

When we say “I would do anything for you,” do we mean in a very real way, “You’re on your own.”  Ever man dies alone…is it only an illusion to think we do not also live that way…

So yeah I hate this movie, I hate it so much I’ll watch it every time it’s on…

Just don’t ever get me started on Homeward Bound: The Incredible Journey….I have something in my eye.

Once more for the road:

GAWD OF THUNDAAAAAR!!!!!!!

First off, I am sorry I don’t update this page as much as I feel I ought, but were I to consider all the things I don’t do and feel I ought “Flyosophy” would probably not be mentioned till volume two of library three.

I have mentioned in passing that my dietary habits are something of a running joke.  Last week I had a doctor seriously consider the possibility that I might have scurvy.  I shouldn’t have to tell you I felt disappointed when it turned out I didn’t.  On top of that I’ve learned that potassium or vitamin K is rather important.  Without it you tend to have stroke-like seizures and feel something very much like a heart-attack.  Not fun.

Even less fun is having my precious Tundra recalled by Toyota.  Granted hard to complain when they gave me a brandy new one to use and are essentially rebuilding the “mature” one.  Yes, I do love my truck, and yes she does have a girl’s name, “Koiko.”  The simple truth of the matter is that I have had that truck longer than any other non-familial relationship – even longer than my birth-control hat – last year at this time I was living in it.  It is odd how easily I can get attached to inanimate objects.  Dr. Phil probably would say it’s because I have abandonment issues and I have to learn to love again.

My mom just thinks I’m retarded or possibly gay.  Yes, my mother, Nancy “All My Grandkids are Dogs” Murphy has essentially started to peer-pressure me to knock up someone.  “You know when you get out of work at midnight you should head to the I-Hop, that’s where all the drunk chicks are and who knows maybe you could get lucky and one of them will make a horrible mistake.”  And people wonder why I am immune to panic and don’t seem overly concerned that my blood has the consistency of Oobleck.

It just dawned on me I’m not sure why I’m telling you all this, but hey why not these articles can’t all be gems.

One other thing I have been doing while I wasn’t writing is writing.  I am trying to get a proposal together for a Flyosophy Book…just not sure how much if any “How-to” stuff it should contain.  I personally feel that an awful lot of the How-to stuff in books is bogus at best.  Fly fishing is simple.  In fact a book written which had literally everything you needed to know to get on the water and be successful would be so painfully obvious that most people wouldn’t be able to take it seriously.  The few that could enjoy it for what it was probably wouldn’t need it.

For instance I can tell you EVERYTHING you need to know about fly fishing for stripers in an anorexic paragraph.

Get a fly in front of the fish.  Use a strip-set to hook the fish when it takes the fly.  If you see or suspect the fish are refusing your presentation do something different.  Your basic set up is a 9 foot 9 weight rod with an intermediate line and a six foot 20 pound leader, a Clouser minnow works most of the time.

Naturally the first sentence could be expanded to a series of books, but all in all that’s the name of the game.  If the fish aren’t there you can’t catch them.  If you can’t get a fly to them you can’t catch them.  If you can do both of these things, well, more often than not you will get strikes.  On those days when the fish simply refuses to take a fly, there are some tactics you can try, but honestly they aren’t magic or really all that surprising.

The other alternative is to try my hand at story-telling or heaven forefend try to just write something funny.  Not really sure how this business works, but I did learn one thing – a remarkably successful fishing book would sell around 500 copies.  In any other genre that would be a flop.  Given the amount of work and time that goes into a book I’m guessing your favorite author gets paid about 3 cents an hour…

I’ve also been working on a fiction novel, which does have some fly fishing in it.  Granted it takes place in a fantasy version of the Iron Age. I felt I had to make it a fantasy setting because the reality of such a time would be all my characters dying a nasty diarrhea death.  Though I do plan on writing like a three page description of some chump trying to get a fire started…I mean seriously that must have sucked.  I was in Boy Scouts with the flint and steel and that fire by friction – yeah no thanks.  I mean think about it, getting breakfast was a high adventure.

See this is what happens when you grow up thinking Conan the Barbarian was a historical figure.  Actually it is kind of weird, as a kid my favorite book was this story book my dad gave me.  It had versions of Beowulf, Morte de Arthur, Siegfried, Icelandic Sagas, The Song of Roland, Gilgamesh, all with full color illustrations.  The language was geared for children (or sub-standard adults) but all the violence was in there.  My older sister loved it too and one year organized all the neighborhood kids to put on a play – of Dante’s Inferno. She may have been 9.  Luckily she grew up to be cool…me I can only be considered cool during a bout of hypothermia.

“Each leaf of oak, ash, and thorn, is a unique embodiment of the pattern, and for some, aye, this very year may be the embodiment, the first ever seen and recognized, though 0aks have but forth leaves for countless generations of men.”

J.R.R. Tolkien

If you have kids in your house, have books in the house.  If you want to be awesome, occasionally read to them.  Today I turned 36, I can still vividly remember my father reading the “Hobbit” to me.  Video games, I-pods, and a bazillion other technical devices are replacing imagination…I’m not okay with that.

See now I’m thinking there is a market that hasn’t been exploited.  Erotic Fly Fishing Fantasy Literature.  Picture the cover art of Fabio wearing just a chest pack between his nipples while some buxom wench clings to his non-casting arm.  Titles like:  The Ghillie’s Saucy Wife, The Bamboo Switch, When Teddy Gordon’s Away the Lassies will Play…

Enjoy a sample:

Feathery Delight

Kim Kardashian had come to learn what should have been painfully obvious to everyone in the Universe.  Her ex Reggie Bush was a running back, and no running back was man enough to ever satisfy her the way an ex-linebacker from a Division Three school could.

“Oh my God Sean that was…well let’s just say you made me feel like a virgin again.”

Sean Juan was starting to fall asleep the full 2.9 seconds of exertion had left him glistening in a Crisco-like layer of sweat.

“Well, Kim, don’t want to brag but they don’t call me ‘Big Guy’ simply because I’m morbidly obese.”

“No I meant that it was over before I knew what was going on and I’m still not sure what happened. Take me again…”

“Sorry babe no can do, you know there is a little thing called meiosis that needs to happen…I’d explain it to you but we all know girls are no good with the maths.”

Sean Juan got up and scratched his manly ass, as hairy as a boar’s and thrice as large.  He had a tide in two hours and still needed to tie a few patterns for the trip.  Still he couldn’t help but look at Kim’s big fat ass, damn if the fish were half that size the trip would be epic.

“Oh Sean please come back to bed I get so lonely without your massively jacked arms.”

“Ya, about that, probably better if you didn’t look in my computer, just saying.  Why don’t you cook something, don’t go losing weight and force me to dump you like I did to Megan Fox.”

“But the guys on TMZ said I looked fat.”

“Those guys are fags.  Listen you are built for comfort with an ass that when I slap it – it slaps me back.  Kudos to you.”

So Sean went down to his basement liar, and started to tie flies that certainly wouldn’t be detailed here. Maybe someday in a book titled, “Flyosophy: Hold the Salt” – or something even wittier.  But Kim grew bored and restless and found that Sean’s TV had both the Oxygen and Life-time Movie Network blocked out, his DVR contained nothing but episodes of Robot Chicken and WWE programming.  So Kim tiptoed down to where Sean was working.

Sean gazed intently at his vise and didn’t take note of her.  So she dangled her leg over his shoulder.

“You are in my light.”

Then she blew in his ear.

“Yes I think that is a wonderful idea.”

“But I didn’t say anything.” Kim pouted.

“Sorry, Knee-jerk.”  What were the odds that she wouldn’t have said something…should have bought a lottery ticket.

So Kim called her bestie, Gisele, and asked her what she did to get Tom Brady in the mood.  Gisele told her she would put on tight silver pants and bend over in front of Tom while he called out random numbers and colors.  Kim didn’t think that would work.  She remembered how Sean drooled over the Victoria Secrets Ad that pictured Gisele with her feather bra.  Kim only hoped they made one in her size, since she was a real woman and thus had boobs.

Attired with her new bra she crept up on Sean – still fixated on his vise – and stroked the back of his neck with her feather-clad boobies.  Finally Sean turned to face her and gazed lovingly at her chest.

“Oh Kim, you know what daddy wants.”

Kim shimmied at the encouragement.

“You know what daddy NEEDS.”

Kim ran her hands through her thick, dark and silky hair.  Sean reached for her breasts, found a perfect feather with a soft quill for palmering and plucked it with a quick thank you, turning back to the vise to tie in his prize.

Ya, that’s never going to work.  Probably should leave the fantasy genre to the experts, of course none greater than J.R.R. Tolkien who wrote “The Lord of the Rings.”  Which brings us to this articles segue see the Ring of Doom could turn you invisible, and I have found that for fishing spooky fish on clear flats nothing beats an invisible fly.

That was weak even by my low standards.

The Invisible Fly is something I have been tinkering with for a few years.  Like most “patterns” it can easily be modified for color and size.  The proto-fly was called the Cyborg, and is an excellent fly in clear water.  Like the Cyborg the Invisible Fly uses yak hair with a mixture of synthetics.  The pictured flies have a few strands of Mega-mushy flash and a topping of Deadly Dazzle.

The fly really is more or less invisible.  If one was dropped at your feet in the sands of a flat, you could not easily see it.  Like a natural baitfish the best way to spot one is to look for the shadow.

As for effectiveness, like all flies it’s hard to judge.  Fished next to a Whitey there are days where it is clearly less effective, however when the sun is high and the fish are spooky on the flats, there have been times where the invisible fly was the only fly in several fishermen’s boxes to work.  I suspect that it will work wherever there are clear waters and picky fish…be they stripers, trout, or what have you.

Look I get that I don’t update this site enough, but I hate those blogs that have posts like:

“Today I ate a cheese sandwich, and watched cartoons with my pants at my ankles…”

Frankly, I really don’t care what you think or want or hope for.  See I have almost no computer skills…

Flyosophy Fun Fact: It takes the Flyosopher on average twice as long to post a picture than it takes to write a 1000+ word article.

I have no idea how many people read this page, I have no hit tracker, and the guy who asked why I don’t link other blogs – well I have no clue what you are talking about.

When it comes to the actually writing of “Flyosophy” the man that I respect most on the subject of writing had this to say:

“Well I read your blog and I came to the conclusion that your target audience is absolutely nobody.  Anyone who cares about fly fishing wouldn’t want to read it, people who don’t care about fly fishing wouldn’t be interested, and your writing style is so convoluted and schizophrenic that no one could be drawn to it for that reason either.  Also, you need to post more often; some of that stuff is hilarious, like the part about the slutty sister and the cheeseburger.”

Paul Stanton – Dean of Tufts University

There is one person, however, who I know reads Flyosophy – Donald Trump.

See I make a post about how I think Arab-chicks are hot, and Viola the next Miss USA.

Its nice to have friends in high places, and yes I am aware that there is some controversy with the beauty pageants again this year as there was last year and I have my own insights into that…which I’m sure you will hear about sooner or later, whether you want to or not.

Today’s post was supposed to be a fishing report type since last week I was in the Ontario region for the better part of a week pike fishing.  So without further ado here are all the pictures of the pike I caught.

Unless you think I just made a computing error – rest assured I did not, I simply did not catch a single pike.  As a parting gift here is a picture of me in my birth-control hat with a pickerel.

You should note two things in this picture – the first is that pickerel is awesome.  The second is how loose fitting that shirt looks on me, have I been loosing weight?  As a matter of fact I have and it’s not easy for me since I’m lazy and like to eat a lot.  So nice of you to notice I appreciate it…

Now in some ways the trip was a disappointment, but I had a fantastic time.  In fact, it may have been one of my very favorite trips.  I was going to write a bit about the less than ideal conditions and the variety of tactics Mark and I tried to overcome them, but instead I was reminded of a quote from Henry David Thoreau.

“Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after.”

Henry David Thoreau

I have mixed feelings about Henry David Thoreau.  Much of my life in academia I was compared to him – both in terms of style and content.  Our personal histories overlap at many points – Walden Pond was one of my “Home Waters” and Thoreau also spent a great deal of time on Cape Cod where I now live.  The places in Maine he traveled, I have traveled and I know the Concord River like the back of my hand.

Flyosophy Fun Fact:  Henry David Thoreau and the Flyosopher have the same birthday.

We were also both teachers who quit for much the same reason.  Our political views focus on personal freedom and individual responsibility and both have gotten us in trouble – Thoreau with the law, and me with chicks especially one that had the most amazing boobs – but save that tale for another time, her name was “Nunya Business.”   Finally – and this is the painful and mature realization – we both have a tendency to be sanctimonious pricks with ill-advised facial hair.

Read more about Henry David Thoreau at your local library…you can read more about the Flyosopher at…well you can’t…

The more I think of things though, the truer his words become.  In fact, fish may be the very last reason to go fishing at all.

Like catching a world-class striper may, in a very real way, be less of a motivator than not running wild through town wearing naught but chunky peanut butter and wielding a sledgehammer coated in purple flaming sterno.  Re-reading that I see how awesome that would be…but you get the idea.

You have heard all this before.  Nearly everyone who puts words down on the subject of fishing will express this point in some form or another.  They are all valid and true, even the ones which contrast.  A man may fish to remember a lost friend, or to forget some painful event – for a time.  I went fishing on 9/11/01 – I was not alone.  A husband could fish to escape from a nagging bitch of a wife, or he could pack up his kids and give her a much deserved and appreciated Saturday off.  Like all human endeavors, the event is really meaningless; it’s the thoughts and perceptions of the doers that truly matter.

For myself, I have always had something of a strained relationship with fishing.  As a kid I never wanted to play organized sports, because I knew they would cut into fishing time.  I chose my profession, because it would allow me to fish.  I do have moments where I wonder what my life would have been like if – like my brothers and sisters, simply never enjoyed fishing.  Would this passion I have for it been expressed in some other way?  It’s easy to joke and say that if I put as much thought into making money or curing disease that I have put into fishing – the world itself may be a better place.  It is probably more likely that I simply would never have experienced a passion like this, drifting through life with no real direction and simply a larger collection of Xbox games…who can say?

Who would want to?

The reality is that I spent 4 days tossing flies at various structures.  A few days I froze, a few I got sunburned, and none of them I caught very many fish, a few I caught none at all.  Yet at no point did I want to be anywhere else or anyone else.  I can’t say that about when I’m at work, or even when I’m home.  Home I hear echoes in empty rooms and often feel very lonely.  Alone in my small plastic kayak beneath the Milky Way miles from shore, I do not.  Fishing – whether there are fish or no fish – is the feeling of happiness, the quieted soul of a man who despite the vastness of the universe is right where he ought to be; right where he is supposed to be.  The weather may be foul, hatches may not happen, and they aren’t always biting – but this is a true happiness deeper than any I have yet known or perhaps ever will.

But it is enough.

Still if you are heading out anyways might as well catch something…so next up a look at some of my season 2010 flies…I’ll write down my predictions so we can laugh about them later.

Happy Earth Day…you God Damn Commie.  Remember the very best thing you can do for the planet is kill yourself.

That was probably unfair I mean it’s not like you are celebrating Lenin’s birthday or anything…oh wait that’s exactly what you’re doing.

But hey it’s not like one of the dirty Socialist hippies who started the whole Earth Day thing, Ira Einhorn, murdered his girlfriend and left her rotting in a trunk in his closet.  Yup, that’s true too.  He also fled the country on bail (lived in Socialist France for 16 years)…guess who his defense lawyer was at the time, Senator Arlen Specter, another Pinko.

Earth Day activists often rail against nuclear power – but more people died in Einhorn’s apartment than due to the oft vilified Three-Mile Island.

These are facts about Earth Day.

But are they truths?

Little different…nearly everything in our modern society is politicized.  People can rail about keeping politics out of certain things, but honestly politics are at the root of so many events and celebrations that this is a hopeless wish.  Earth Day is just one of these things.  Is it a day for kids to draw pictures and learn about ecology, or a day of indoctrination – the honest answer is generally “both.”

In the interest of full disclosure I feel I should point out a few things.  I am a Libertarian.  What this means is I believe the government has no right to infringe on my freedoms, nor do I believe the government has a right to infringe on the freedoms of others – including a freedom to act a fool. I believe quite strongly in the Constitution and recognize it for what it is – the only protection individual liberties have from the United States Government.  The Constitution does not protect you from foreign agents, nor from corporations, nor from your neighbors, the Constitution protects you from the government.  So when say a Presidential candidate runs his campaign promising to remove some of these protections, be very clear that it is from him (and other representatives) that these protections exist.  This is NO different than a thief asking you to not lock your door.

The second thing is I did buy a Prius.  The Prius gets a hugely positive review from the environmental group and is lambasted by conservative elements.  Like most things its really neither – the gas mileage is good but little better than a comparably sized non-hybrid, and the power is considerably more than detractors would lead you to believe.  The cargo room – specifically the golden retriever cargo room – was quite nice.  In fact, the biggest negative I found is that the car attracted the attention of the dirty hippie crowd.

(Look in the mirror:  Are you Male?  If Yes continue.  Do you have a Grey Ponytail?  If Yes continue.  Congratulations!!!! You are looking at a douchebag.)

They would walk up and look at me as I took a fly rod from the car.

“It is so great to see someone who wants to save the planet.”  This was always spoken with a sing-songy voice that made me want to slam my nuts in the door.

“Ya whatever dude, just going fishing.”

“Fishing is evil man, why did you get the Hybrid?”

I would pause reflect and answer.  “Because I figure the less gas I burn, the more Arab children will starve to death.  Have a nice day!”

Note:  A lot of what I write is for humor or shock value – this exchange actually took place.  I personally have nothing against Arabs since I find Arab women to be exceptionally beautiful.

I am a bad man, crude and mean.  Yet this tale points to something I have never fully understood.  The belief that “environmentalists” are politically liberal, yet “sportsmen” are politically conservative – and thus philosophical enemies.  The goals of clean water, clean air, and the simple pragmatism of using what you need and reusing what you can – seem at least to me somewhat universal goals.

“Now observe that in all the propaganda of the ecologists–amidst all their appeals to nature and pleas for ‘harmony with nature’–there is no discussion of man’s needs and the requirements of his survival. Man is treated as if he were an unnatural phenomenon. Man cannot survive in the kind of state of nature that the ecologists envision–i.e., on the level of sea urchins or polar bears…”

Ayn Rand

There is but one universal goal in politics – win.

Personally, I like Earth Day.  I think it is good to have a time to consider the value of our planet and how we can do a better job preserving the natural places we love.  Studying ecology, how one event impacts another is a wonderful discipline.  Another lesson is responsibility, that what a person does has an impact on the world.  This is a powerful and empowering lesson, a shame that it is most often used to frighten children or foster guilt.  Finally, I  believe it would be an ideal time – not for the harsh negativity that so often follows the environmental movement but to consider the positive.

When I was a child Boston Harbor was a cesspool – literally!  You would never think of swimming there, eating the fish, or heaven forfend the shellfish.  Today, Boston Harbor is beautiful, a shining example of the Earth’s ability to heal and man’s ability to help that process through technology and thought.  The rivers in the western parts of Massachusetts were horribly polluted.  You could literally smell the toxins.  Today they are far less polluted, again a testament to the ability of running waters to become clean again.  Catch and release was mocked, and today it is widely accepted in fact I dare say the norm.  These changes did not take eons or even generations.  I’m referring merely to my own personal observations a mere 25 years or less – a fraction of a fraction of an eye-blink in geological terms.  Today, the world is a better place than it was when I started fishing. That is a wonderful thought – yet how often do you hear it?  Sure there is more to do, more that can be done, but the fact remains,  kids growing up today have better fishing available to them than kids growing up in the early 80’s did.  Hopefully this trend will continue.

Is fishing as good as earlier generations – no, but what other generation can claim to have made an honest and marked improvement over what it was handed?  Very few, that great fishing of years passed was enjoyed by a generation that handed off a diminished fishery.

I suspect this was the case since the beginning of the country, but that trend has stopped and like them or loathe them the environmental movement played a hand. Corporations – often seen as the enemy of the environment played a hand as well – technological developments that improved water quality did not come about because people stopped trying to advance.  Progress is like a great herd moving across the plain – without it we get nowhere – but one should not be surprised at all the shit.

So what is your Earth Day assignment?  I want each and every one of you, to try to introduce the outdoors to someone who has not yet enjoyed it.  Take a kid fishing, take your city-slicker parents for a walk, or be a real hero and mentor a kid that wasn’t lucky enough to have someone to introduce him or her to the passion we all love.  The more people who appreciate and enjoy the great outdoors, the more likely it is to remain great and prosper, and if we are very, very lucky, improve.

Happy Earth Day….

Commies…

I have a question…

Let’s pretend for a moment the year is 1980.  You have just purchased tickets to see “The Empire Strikes Back.”  Understandably you are excited to see the movie – Han, Chewy, the Princess’s new do…you are positively giddy.

Then some stranger walks up to you and asks, “Are you here to see the Star Wars movie?”

Not to be rude you answer that you are.

The same stranger then says, “Darth Vader is Luke’s father.”

This person is clearly the lowest Troglodyte ever coughed from a vagina to degrade the Earth.  If Seantopia were a true place on the map rather than simply a feeling in one’s heart, the law would state that such a smear be beaten from his life, or partially flayed and allowed to die of the same festering ooze which resides in the vacant cavity between his ears.

Then upon dying his soul would go straight to Hell.  Satan would shove a pineapple up his ass, and Hitler would not want to tread lava beside him for fear of getting a worse reputation.

This person is an ass.  He has no friends.  No one would support this behavior.  Spoiling a surprise is universally considered the action of a scoundrel…Chewbacca would rip his arms out of their sockets, and Yoda would nod his approval.

So my question is this?  Why is it that when I – me – arrive at a spot and another fisherman is there, he feels compelled to either: A: tell me what is happening, or B: demand this information from me?  More importantly – why am I suddenly the asshole because I tell the guy I really don’t want to know, or if pressed I always lie…ALWAYS.

What’s the difference between the two scenarios?

There is only one positive difference that I can think of.  That there is a Brotherhood of Anglers and somehow we should work together.  Maybe…but is that really what is going on?  If that were the case, then the conversation would focus more on the techniques used to catch the fish, rather than the number, pounds and inches.  How often does the information provider bother to ask if the information is even desired?  Rarely…extremely rarely.

More often than not pride is the real issue.  Either the person has done well and feels the need to boast, or the person has done poorly and feels the need to be reassured.  How often have you heard: “I didn’t catch anything, but I looked around and didn’t see anyone else catching anything either.”  Great, so you had a bad day yet you are evil in spirit enough to feel better because other people had disappointing days as well.  Yes, I described this behavior trait as “evil” what other term would you use for “joy and delight at human suffering?”  See…

Now I suspect there are a few of you asking this question:  What in the blue hell is your problem?

It is this.

I go fishing to learn, to find fish, and to catch them, in that order.  I do not go to hold a meeting or to be told exactly where to go and what to do to catch them.  I, frankly, do not care if I should have been here yesterday, nor do I care to know how well or how poorly you have done.  The other side of the coin is the same…I feel no need to tell anyone how many fish I have or have not caught.  I would love to discuss tactics, but very few anglers even consider them – heck many of the people I have come across more than once were fishing exactly the same areas exactly the same ways.  I have little patience for the intellectually lazy.

There is another reason that I hate fishing reports, and I think it speaks to the scientist in me.

Reports skew results.

If you are about to fish, and someone tells you that they haven’t caught anything, odds are you will fish that area differently than if that information wasn’t forced upon you.  The opposite is true as well.  This probably seems like a minor point, but my primary reason for leaving the house is to learn.  The ocean is vast, the variables are many, so many that I doubt I have even considered a third of them.  Perhaps, with more information I could learn faster.  True, but the process is the fun part.  The joy of a puzzle is in the pieces not the finished picture.

Next question: Ok, that explains a bit why you don’t like being told information…but why lie?

The easy answer is because that’s the way I was raised.  My father was a recreational liar.  A true liar tells lies to deceive, and either hide or advance his agenda.  My father lied for no other reason than to entertain himself.  Of course, 24 years after his death I still get surprised by aged gems, like just last week I discovered that Great Uncle Lester was not in fact a pirate who’s ship sunk, he was a drunk who one day turned orange and died.  It also seems that my mom was not in fact the “Dancing Queen” Abba sang about.

The standing rule was simple, if we had been catching fish and a person asked us what we had caught, we were to look downcast and dejectedly say “Nothing.”  If the opposite was true, and we were on the verge of leaving a spot, we were to tout how great the fishing was – with the added affect that if we were asked what we had for bait – despite holding fly rods – answer “Raisins.”

Lying gets a bad rap, but in addition to being a Bundy credo.

“Lie when your wife is waking. Lie when your belly’s aching. Lie when you know she’s faking. Lie, sell shoes, and lie”

Al Bundy

The best lies are simply to agree with a person’s pre-set notion.  Like say the girl you are dating but don’t really like much anymore is in the process of dumping you – it’s about time really you haven’t called her in a week and forgot her birthday.  Women always need a reason to break up, and this reason always has to be your fault.  So she’ll be saying stuff like you have intimacy issues or some crap about communication – doesn’t matter because you aren’t really listening anyways.  The truth is simple, when you met her she was wearing a padded push-up bra and when you found out she was false advertising you lost interest, but instead you are a gentleman and lie to her by allowing her to believe whatever myth she picked up on the Oprah show.  The same process works for less gifted fishermen.

It’s harder for a man to believe that he doesn’t know something, than it is for him to believe that you don’t know something.  A vacant look helps.  So if a guy hasn’t caught anything, its easier for him to believe you haven’t than to realize that he just sucks at fishing and possibly life in general.  The nicest thing you can do is leave him comforted in a blanket of ignorance.

The fact that we share a hobby does not make us friends.  Ironically, if we fished together that would make us friends.  This has become my standard answer to inquires, I simply say I do not know but I am going to find out, come with me if it pleases you.  Very few people have accepted that offer, the few that have are among my very best friends.

Interesting title…we’ll get back to it.

A couple years ago I wrote a narrative essay entitled “Roots in Sand.” I wrote it during a time in my life that a few things had happened: I had just moved to Cape Cod, I had broken my body (See “Last Traction Hero”), and the faults in my marriage had shifted in such a way as to cause a major tsunami. I typed the essay with two fingers of my left hand while walking on a treadmill. One of the things you learn about a broken back is that walking is one of the few things that feels good, of course I also had a busted ankle. I’ll reprint it here because I now wish to add something of an addendum.

Roots in Sand

I’m not what you would call old, but sometimes I feel it.

Today is one of those days, when memories come readily to the mind’s surface as the cold, rainy wind blows, tracing the outlines of broken bones each one a memory. Some carry funny stories; some, not so much. I feel them all as I walk along a new beach doing what I do every winter; look for new places to fish.

This will be my second summer living on Cape Cod, which makes it the longest I’ve ever lived anywhere in my adult life. I take note of darker water and current seams – the interesting places – a fisherman’s eye instinctively seeks out features like these and focuses on them. I could walk for ten miles and find only a handful of these areas, so each one is precious – far too precious to miss. I don’t bother taking pictures or even committing them to memory; this is the ocean and before the end of a single tide the sands could shift themselves into an entirely different pattern.

Not like granite, not like home.

I catch myself mid-thought. For whatever reason, I have always considered New Hampshire’s White Mountains to be my home. I didn’t really grow up there or live there for very long. In fact, I’m not entirely sure how much time I spent on my grandmother’s farm as a kid. I do not call it home because of Sunday meals or warming pies – there were neither – more, because of secret fishing spots and brook trout; because it was where I learned a natural world is one I fit best into; because when I returned to my parent’s house in the city, I felt very out of place in my own room.

A small thing really, but a small thing that changes means far more than a large thing that stays the same – a stone on a sandy flat, far too precious to miss. It is just a thought, though, and not truly an honest one. The White Mountains are not my home, no more than Boston, Presque Isle, Rome Maine, or several other addresses to which I’ve had mail sent. The truth is I’m not really from anywhere, and there is nowhere to return to.

For years it has been an empty goal of mine to return home. Something I always told myself without really listening. I miss mountains and rivers. The truly majestic power of a maple in its autumn raiment is not easily replaced by scrub pine, a feeble-looking tree with its roots in sand, cowering by the sea. The sea is very beautiful, but not welcoming. Like true art, it seems more a reflection of the world than a part, a chaotic swirling of thought and dream; one can look upon it for a long while without noticing time, but this is winter. Soon the beach will be full of people, and the energy of the sea will be muffled by battery-powered radios and the rattling bass of blown out speakers. I will not come here then, for it will no longer be a wild place, the kind I understand.

These thoughts are a bit much for me, so I concentrate again on fishing. White foam surges through a funnel in a sandbar, spilling into a dark trough. I imagine a deceiver dancing through that cut in the sand, to the stripers, which surely must lie in wait. I smile. Finding spots such as this is the biggest challenge for a fisherman with no “home water” – I’ve gotten rather good at it, though not good enough. I think of other spots I’ve found over the years, most of which I will never return to. I wonder if there is something wrong with moving from place to place and having no bigger regret than having lost a fishing spot. I do not miss the people I’ve worked with or communities I’ve been a member of, only the current seams and hidden eddies I’ve uncovered, the insects and crustaceans I’ve learned to masquerade hooks as. Changeable as the natural world can be, it is constant in its principles. It may be the only thing.

I look at the scrub pine again. The sickly vision, its twisted trunk and oddly angled branches filled with random clumps of needle-like leaves, seems awfully beautiful to me now. It grows; it lives. These roots do not find the promise of rich soil shored up by thick blocks of granite; rather, it finds purchase in a dune of sand clinging to life by sheer force of will, each day boldly facing the changing sea. I wonder if it is not the sight of the maple that I miss, but the scrub’s roots that I lack.

Through all my address changes I have had just one companion, fishing. No matter where I find myself I can always find fish and comfort, and be happy. Is it a hobby? Perhaps. Is it a colossal waste of time, to catch a fish and then turn it loose? Maybe. Yet, for good or ill, it has become the largest share of what I am. When I day-dream it is about fishing, when I exercise my broken elbow it is so I can cast again, and when I take a stroll along the beach, invariably I am looking for a place stripers can trap bait. All of these things are a part of what fishing means to me, yet more so; it is the sense that when I am on a stream, lake, pond or the ocean I am where I am supposed to be. I feel no desire to be anywhere else, no need to do anything except that which I am doing, to be nothing more than that which I am.

It feels like home.

Italics do make things look more important.

Kind of a maudlin tale, certainly not my best work, but lately I’ve been thinking about it in another light.

I’m a New Englander.  That’s something to be proud of.

Now I’m sure the other regions of America are nice, and it is possible – although highly unlikely – that places outside of America are alright to not incredibly sucky.  But better than New England? Hell no.

In case you are some intellectual feeb from a square state or stupid enough to think that brown corn syrup is a suitable replacement for the greatest substance on Earth – more on that later – New England is a collection of six states: Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, and Connecticut.  The capital of New England is Boston, each state has its own capital but no one cares.  Politically the people of New England are diverse. Vermont is populated by Communists.   New Hampshire by Libertarians. Rhode Island is run by the Mafia – not the good Mafia these would be like the third cousins of “The Family.”  Maine is the home of people who though they may be aware that things happen outside of Maine they don’t much care.  Connecticut is where New Yorkers park their cars – Connecticut would have been kicked out of New England if not for the fact that Vince McMahon lives there.

New Englanders are always cranky.  This is not to be confused with the anger or general mal-temper of a New Yorker.  The crankiness is actually a test, to see how you respond.  Surprise or fear indicates that you are from the South or Swedish.  No reaction means you are from the Midwest, where a stupid grin is a clear indication of California.  The reason New Englanders do this is to help them spot New Yorkers…New Yorkers are the lowest form of life and like most parasites they often try to pass themselves off as something else.  New York sucks…that’s why so many of their people flee to New England.  Some will even halfheartedly mumble “Yankees suck” in Boston bars. New Yorkers are the reason New Englanders are always cranky.

Quick think of the funniest person you know…odds are either A. He is a New Englander (I didn’t put She because women have no sense of humor every joke told by a woman is about a man…men are therefore the source of all humor in the universe.)  B.  The Funniest person you know is not funny (you are probably from the South where quick-witted just doesn’t happen.)  Jay Leno and Conan O’Brien are New Englanders – Dave Letterman couldn’t get a 4th grade class to laugh at a fart joke.  Seth MacFarlane and the majority of the writers for the Simpsons…New Englanders.  This is carved in stone.

What about Larry the Cable Guy?  Developed the character and his comedic talent in New Hampshire.  The humor rule is absolute.  Non-New Englanders simply aren’t funny.  Larry the Cable Guy is mildly amusing…but I know my audience and I’m sure you think he’s a riot.

New England has beautiful beaches, complex forests, mountains (well really big hills at least,)  and an array of freshwater lakes, ponds, rivers, and streams….you can see all of these features driving less than 3 hours.  We also boast the worst weather in the world at the top of Mount Washington our highest peak.  I once hiked to the top of Mt. Washington – there was a parking lot and a train station – the summit was a pile of rocks I didn’t bother waiting in line to climb.

New England has maple syrup…the true nectar of the gods.  I can not write words of love in prose.  As a nod – and just a nod – to America’s little sister to the North, I will use the Ode form popularized by Pierre de Ronsard.  Ronsard took the classic Pindaric story structure and then added a closing couplet to each quatrain to form sestet stanzas with ababcc rhyme schemes.  That’s right ladies I am the perfect man.

Ode to Maple Syrup

Maid of Vermont thou art a bitch,

Peddling brown corn syrup as -

Maple’s kiss.  I’d toss you in a ditch,

Or lock you up in Alcatraz.

Fake Maple Syrup I hate thee,

I would much rather ingest pee.

Beauteous Amber sweet and light,

Playing on my lips Maple Syrup

You are the maiden, I your knight.

Words my steed, meter my stirrup.

Love stronger than Ernie and Bert,

You, my water in the desert.

When my eyes dim, my hearing fades,

How precious your kiss to me then,

As Grim Jim deals me the Ace-of-Spades.

You my escape, my opium den.

My ghost leaves with one last task, Syrup calls “DO IT”!!!

Whisper “Nice Boobs” to Jennifer Love Hewitt.

That’s right – not only did I rhyme “syrup” I included a Garbage Pail Kids reference…ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED!!!!

The other New England staple is Cranberry Juice.  I use cranberry juice as an alarm clock.  Say you absolutely need to wake up in four hours to catch a tide…alarm clocks have snooze buttons.  If you drink a pint of cranberry juice, your ass will be up in four hours, and you will learn exactly how full a bladder can be.  Word to the wise if you start to have dreams about: urinals, swimming in your boss’s pool, German porn – wake yourself up immediately.  Cranberry Juice is tart, unwelcoming, and great with Vodka – New England in a nutshell.

Cranberry juice is also wicked good for you.  People from the Boston area say “wicked” a lot.  That’s because they are wicked awesome, kid!!!  People from Medford – a town outside Boston with the highest number of mentally unstable people per square inch – have a unique way of expressing disdain.  They simply take the keyword of the last sentence their victim uttered and add  – THIS to it with a dramatic down thrusting gesture towards their nether region.

For example:

Teacher:

Sean, you would have performed better had you studied for the test.

Student:

Study-THIS!!!!

Judge:

I am going to sentence you to 45 days.

Defendant:

Sentence-THIS!!!!!

Judge:

Ok, 90 days.

I hope this will serve you well if you ever decide to visit New England…granted I hope even more that you’ll stay in whatever hell-hole spawned you and leave us alone.

Yankees Suck.

Well here we are at the finally essay on casting.  Hopefully you noticed a subtle secret.  Casting extreme distances is no different than a basic four part cast.

There is no added strength.  Drifting is probably the only real change in technique.  All we really learned is how to be more efficient.  That’s enough.  Distance is just one instance in which having an efficient cast is desirable.  Blind fishing, working against a wind, using heavier gear, and well I really can’t think of an example of when being efficient is a negative.

I believe that this teaching method was developed in New England, specifically for guys who were transitioning from very small streams to fishing the open ocean.  Using heavy gear in the wind to cast distance can be very tiring, especially if your cast is inefficient.  I could be wrong about the history but I doubt it.  This method teaches you, by breaking bad habits, and drilling…Puritanical New England if you ask me, which you didn’t.

I bleed Cranberry juice and Maple Syrup.

Also I hope you noticed one other theme…

I am under no delusion that what I wrote alone will add one inch to your cast.  Everything depends on practice, especially with this methodology.  Some of you will take this to heart, most of you wont, that’s just human nature.  I didn’t post these articles to make anyone feel bad or to express that what you have been doing is wrong.  I just wanted to detail the process by which I learned to cast, and how I still continue to practice.  Also, I wanted to show that it can be done, and it’s not all that hard to learn, but it does take time.  Again as I have said before, I don’t believe in talent, but hard work and dedication.  If you want to be able to do this you can, but you have to put in the work.  15 minutes a day doesn’t sound like much, but it requires drive when you have to string a 9’ rod and then find an ample casting place.

I still practice nearly every day…because it’s like Ernie said:

“We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.”

Ernest Hemingway

Granted he was speaking of writing.

This brings me to another point…

I am going to continue to update Flyosophy with articles but perhaps at a slightly slower pace.  After a lot of soul searching and heel dragging I have decided to make an attempt at my boyhood dream of being a writer.  I used to write all the time as a kid…mostly Lord of the Rings type stuff.  I wrote through college but then stopped.  It wasn’t until I had my accident and Will Mullis recruited me for Hatches that I started writing again.  I really can’t thank him enough.  So anyhow I have written an outline for a fiction book that I will be working on, hopefully you’ll enjoy it someday, and if things don’t pan out hopefully I’ll learn enough from this attempt to make a more successful second one in the future.  The book is not directly related to fly fishing – its actually going to be a fairly dark comedy – but I also am planning to write a few more narrative essay style articles for Flyosophy…well just wanted to keep you guys appraised of what I’m doing so you don’t think I died or something.

By the way, I have it written in my will to have no memorial service when some jealous twit finally manages to take me out.  I don’t want anyone faking they cared and getting time off work…that’s how bitter and hate-filled I am…inspiring!!!

Back to work…

So let’s recap what we have learned so far.

The back cast is incredibly important to not screw up.

A casting stroke is a smooth acceleration of the rod, it is more important that each moment of the cast be FASTER, than the actual speed of the cast.

A positive stop is necessary to release the energy of the cast into the line.  The more abrupt this stop the tighter the loop and the more efficient the cast.

A drift can be used on both the back cast and the forward cast to increase the casting arc.  The Positive stop should still be aimed high, the rod drifted back AFTER the positive stop.

The ideal timing for the start of a forward cast is immediately after the back cast has straightened out.

Hauls can and should be used to increase the load on the rod.

During the final back cast line can be shot into the back cast, not only to increase the mass used for the final forward cast, but also so that when the angler pinches down on the shooting line he can instantly pre-load the rod at the start of his forward cast.

In my opinion, casting a fly rod should be one of the biggest joys in fly fishing, not something to struggle against.

The final drill is to simply cast.  Cast as often and in as many ways as possible.  I believe that if you repeat the same cast over and over the amount your will learn is minimal.  Practicing a cast is different that drilling.  The back cast drill for instance is designed to teach muscle memory and develop feel.  When you have these you can cast in any plane at any angle.  Try making a cast from your belly.  Always cast at a target.  Practice on windy days.  You get the idea.  Imagine the rod stopper, or take the time to tie the rod to your wrist again for a few casts.  It is these subtle tweaks that will transform you from someone who can cast into a true Master.

Did I miss anything…oh yeah, practice is everything.

Sorry Ladies…no cheesy pics of singers or actresses – the object of my desire is a platter of meatballs.  Make no mistake I would kill all of you for a decent meatball.  God I’m so hungry, today I ate a bag of frozen corn…times are tough.  And if you aren’t supposed to put metal in a microwave why is the rack in there metal?  Stupid soup cans…

Enough for the introduction…

Of all the stuff that has been written about fly casting, I feel the lion’s share of it has fallen to the double haul. A lot of this material contradicts itself…or at least seems to. In all honesty, I personally believe that the majority of what has been written about the double haul was written by people who have no idea how or why it works.

In this regard, my article will be no different.

Seriously, I have no idea why pulling against a force with a force in the opposite direction increases that force. I even asked my physics professor, but he started with some crap about torque and yo-yo’s and all sort of brainiac BS, I was sorry I asked

So if you need an explanation for why this works you won’t find it here. However, I have a better than fair understanding of the “what” of it, and with practice I have no doubt anyone can learn how to perform this technique.

Now there has been a good deal of debate over how and when in a caster’s education to introduce the double haul. I feel that the single biggest impediment to learning to haul has to do with your rod hand. I’ve taught enough people to see that the reason many find the double haul to be so hard to learn – is that they often “forget” how to cast with the rod.  For example you see a beginner who finally learned the positive stop (hardest part) and is producing beautiful loops.  Rather than spending the time to commit this to muscle memory, the student attempts to add a haul and the whole cast falls apart.

Naturally the student and often the teacher assume it’s something they are doing wrong with their line hand, and focus on the technique for the haul. Their hauls are perfectly timed and executed, but still the cast either falls apart or is not significantly longer or more powerful then they were without hauling.  So what went wrong?

Most often the problem is that they simply stopped making crisp positive stops with the rod hand. Hopefully you will spend the required time to develop the muscle memory of the positive stop – but odds are you wont, look its just human nature. Standing in a field doing the back cast drill with a nice positive stop is boring and makes you look like an idiot. I once got the phone number of a dental nurse after having my wisdom teeth yanked and being half in la-la land with blood pouring down my drool soaked chin….but in 20 years of practicing at well traveled parks and office developments – never, not once, not even close.  However, by concentrating on the haul, the rod hand becomes a secondary concern, with muscle memory your positive stop and casting stroke is on auto-pilot, without it the cast falls apart.

Your choice.

A perfect haul with a poor rod cast give you much worse results than a poor haul with a perfect rod cast.

The real key to learning to haul is to make sure that the rest of your casting components stay consistent. I find the best way to do this is you keep an eye on it. The “look over your shoulder” method is ok, but I don’t recommend it simply because it takes you out of the cast by changing your body position. Honestly, if you are a good enough caster to reposition yourself during the cast without screwing it up, odds are perfect good you don’t need to look at it, or need to read this article for that matter.

A better method is to simply move the whole cast into a horizontal plane in front of you. Square your shoulders (for a righty) your left shoulder with direct your “forward” cast and your right shoulder will direct your “back” cast. Now find a football field and stand 6′ from the end zone (a similar effect can be created by laying a rope along the ground if you MUST your could even use the baseline from a baseball field, Heaven Forefend!) With your rod by your side and its tip straight out and parallel to the ground, roughly three feet of the rod should be in the endzone. You are going to make casts on this horizontal plane, aiming the casting along the line of the endzone – the rod tip must NEVER leave the endzone (none of this break the plane crap.) This will keep your loops tight and powerful.

Now with the MARK in your line hand, start making some false casts. Concentrate on making good positive stops as the tip arcs towards the border of the endzone. If you have a fast rod and feel that you can make this cast with less of a casting arc, step back a foot. Keep doing this until you are comfortable – then continue until you are bored. By using your eyes and the positive stop you should be making very consistent casts in terms of distance and accuracy. You may also want to note that (unless you are HUGE) the rod tip is less than four feet from the surface of the Earth, yet you should easily be able to keep the line from hitting the ground while false casting – something to think about the next time you are fishing from a belly boat. You should never slap water with your cast…unless you want to when using a big hair fly for largemouth bass.

Now continue to do exactly what you were doing but add a haul. Now you may have read that you only need a tiny tug during the positive stop, or you may have seen some guys making dramatic cross-body hauls. Since I’m not really sure how it works I can only say what I have found best.

I find it easiest if both my rod and line hands are moving in synch or if they are doing exactly the opposite. I like this because it avoids the “Pat your head, Rub your Belly” theme of some other hauling techniques. So essentially I am hauling for the entire casting stroke…and like the casting stroke it starts slow and accelerates to a quick but short tug of the line during the positive stop.

One other point…I find the haul is always useful, but to make a major difference in the force of the cast, it only helps if you allow some line to slip through your fingers. If you are holding the MARK, the only time you want to add more line to the cast is on the final back cast before you make your delivery on the next forward cast. This is ESPECIALLY true if you are using a shooting head or a line that mimics one with a very thin running line. Controlling a cast with the running line is a bad idea.

Now stop…

If you already know the answer to this conundrum then I give you, by the power vested in me by the Esteemed Lords of Fly Fishing – the right to have a Cadbury Cream Egg (they are only around till Easter) I don’t care if you gave them up for Lent, New Years Resolution, or even if you are a bitter old bastard.  Cream Eggs are good and you deserve one, Kudos to you.

Now the rest of you morons, drop and give me 20 Hindu Push ups!!!! Fie for shame!!! Standing like an idiot making false cast after false cast is needless…with good technique – which you have, a crisp positive stop, tight loops, and a now a double haul you should never need to false cast unless for some reason you want to, and then the energy requirement is so minimal you don’t need to worry about adding more force to the cast.

Now back to practice…

Don’t try to kill it, just give it a nice haul – when properly performed the difference in power is substantial. When you feel you have it down, try making a few casts from the standard vertical plane (when I am fishing in a boat with another person I make many of my casts from the horizontal plane to avoid accidents – and on windy days I find these casts easier to make and quicker, a benefit when fishing for a speedy fish like a false albacore.) If the casts start to break down (they usually will) return to the horizontal and get that feeling back again. I actually find that it will help to close your eyes and haul away after a while – once this sight-based exercise becomes feel-based it’s pretty much learned (if you have the muscle memory for the positive stop you may be surprised at just how quickly.). You will want to experiment with quicker longer hauls and see what works best for you. I honestly can only say what I’ve found…you may prefer another way never hurts to try.

Next up we put it all together with one last drill…

I know I may sound strange talking about the muscle memory, but it does pay to practice, even if it’s just to pantomime the cast. When you bring your arm through the cast you want that smooth acceleration to a sudden positive stop…when you can do that literally in your sleep – come on I’m not the only sleep caster – everything else becomes easier.

“I’m hosting a quiz show, but I never considered myself a game show host.”

Maury Povich

If Maury Povich has taught us nothing, it is that timing is everything.  This is as true for matters of paternity as it is for fly casting.  He also taught us that a man with one testicle can father 17 children, being with a Transvestite is an honest mistake that could happen to anyone, and beauty is just a make-over and generous camera angles away.   I’m personally just waiting for the Maury Christmas special where Maury rides a camel with Jack Hannah to visit an obese baby and tell Joseph that, “You are NOT the father.”  Instant Classic!

Efficient fly casting has physical components: good positive stop, slack management, smooth acceleration, keeping the rod in a level plane.  Some of these we have covered already.  Today I want to talk about two tactical considerations: timing and drifting.

Quick question:  You make a back cast and the line is traveling backwards in a nice tight loop.  When is the MOST efficient time to start the forward cast?

1. After you feel a tug from the back cast
2. Before the back cast is fully straightened out – in a Candy Cane shape
3. The Exact Instant the back cast straightens out
4. I can express myself however I want

If you answered 4 congratulations you are moron…probably a public school teacher.

1. Is wrong because by the time you feel this tug much of the energy is already lost.  See most of us think that what we are pulling against is the mass of the line.  This is only partially true.  When we initially load the rod for the forward cast after the back cast we are pulling against the force of the back cast.  Isaac Newton – smartest guy ever – said that this force is equal to the mass multiplied by the acceleration.
2. Is incorrect for exactly the opposite reason 1 is…if the line hasn’t fully straightened then the curved length’s mass is not something we can pull against.  Furthermore that Candy Cane is slack…slack has NO place in your cast.  Just think if that section is two feet – then the first two feet of your forward cast does nothing more than remove that slack from your cast (Keep this in mind when we get to drift.)  Now I will say one thing to your benefit (see I can be nice)…you are obviously well-read, since the vast majority of fly casting advocates this.  This is because this will keep you from messing up a short cast, and the added time can be used for accuracy.  I use a cast like this when I am casting short – 20’- 40’ but this is not an efficient way to cast.

Obviously, 3 is the answer, but think about it…doing anything in the right instance is pretty close to impossible.  Imagine that the biggest fish you ever did see just appeared 90’ from you, are you really going to trust perfect timing (considering ALL the variables that go into a cast) in order to make that cast?

Luckily we don’t have to.

One of the best techniques to secure perfect timing is what I call the “catch cast.”  A more fitting name would be “Allowing line to slide through your fingers on the final back cast then pinching it to start the forward cast with perfect timing”  I suppose I could make up some snarky Acronym but honestly I just don’t feel like it…I’ve been eating a lot of Kraft dinner lately.  I love Mac and Cheese but I think I need like vegetables or something I mean it’s getting pathetic.  My diet for a year has consisted of Lucky Charms, Wendy’s, and either Uncle Ben’s rice pouches or Kraft dinner.  The part that bothers me is, no word of a lie, I am a certified genius…really high IQ…and I’m basically dying because I’m too stupid to care for myself…I mean leave me out – what does this say about the future of mankind?  Hmmm, that would probably be a good article; I’ll leave this here as a little insight into how I come up with this crap.

The catch cast is easy to perform; the only physical difficulty comes from having to pinch down on the line as it is moving with some force.  Like so many other things, practice is the key.  It really doesn’t matter how much line you allow to shoot, but it should only be on the final back cast.

Actually let me address something right now.  A fly cast should be one back cast one forward cast – no more.  True the ideal standard of a fly caster is some dude in tweed making like 60 back casts to throw a dry fly 20 feet.  This is retarded.  With the MARK (remember that) in your hand and the line under control, a good caster needs to make one back cast, and then one forward cast to send a 5/0 herring pattern 100’.  Now the key to that description is “line under control” very often most of us will strip in the line right to the leader, especially if we are using streamer patterns.  You will need to work the line out beyond the tip again and then use some technique to get it under control.  My preferred method is to shake the tip (snicker) and with the MARK in hand make a roll cast to get those 30 – 40 feet of line straight out in front of me.  Then I can make a back cast motion to get it off the water (in high winds I’d just make a water haul – more on that later,) a forward cast to get it under control, and then finally one back cast and one forward cast.

Now this may seem picky, and it probably is, but keep in mind the less you have to do the less opportunity to screw up, and with heavy flies or air resistant flies the hardest part of a cast is the transition from back cast to forward cast, so it makes sense to eliminate as many of these as possible.  Finally, if you ever want to use a shooting head (and many new lines are essentially shooting heads) the one back cast rule will be one you are thankful for.

Now a few words describing drift.  I personally blame Lefty Kreh – specifically his little handbook – for delaying my understanding of the concept of drift.  Actually, I really don’t this is just an example of why you should seek out multiple sources of instruction, I fully suspect there are people reading this now who will be confused by the words I use and find the book that confused me enlightening.  Kind of like how the Hoff is huge in Germany.

Anyhow here it is – Drift AFTER the positive stop.  Drift is basically repositioning the rod to allow you to have a greater arc for a back or forward cast.  In the case of the back cast the positive stop should end so the back cast is high aiming either straight back or at a slightly upwards angle.  Once the positive stop is made you can reach back as much as you are comfortable, and if you excuse the catch cast, your timing will be perfect.

The drift allows you to make a longer casting arch, to accelerate the rod further, and ultimately generate more force.  What you don’t want is to drift so much that you come out of your casting plane, accelerate too quickly so over this longer period you gain nothing, and finally remember that the positive stop is still the most important component…don’t forget to release the energy that you created.

No drills this time, regrettably but next time we work on the double haul and what I consider the ultimate teaching drill.  Keep practicing the back cast, and don’t forget that you can pantomime a casting motion with out a rod and still gain valuable muscle memory.