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Click...Click...Click click click... "Dammit!" We've all been there: clippers that have been dulled by the elements. The only thing that is worse is pliers that have been rusted by use that they're hard to close or open. The scenario when you have a fish at the boat, or in the net, and your pliers don't work? A nightmare.
If you're like me, you're too cheap to buy a boat, but you sometimes feel limited by fishing from the beach. You want an option in the middle -- something not too pricey, and something that doesn't require too much maintenance, but something that will increase your ability to cover more water, more quickly.
Reels. Rods. Binoculars. And, now, DSLR's. The flyfisherman's bag is filled with finely-tuned if not precision, and often expensive, products brought to the water's edge. I've seen it happen before -- a quick flip, a quick flip of a large tail, a small unexpected wave -- and suddenly the Canon is on the fritz, or the box is soaked, or the something is ruined. In that moment, your trip goes from an inexpensive day trip or overnight, to a couple hundred or a couple grand. It's the worst.
For my wedding, people were incredibly generous. But one gift I have found to be particularly touching: a dubbing needle made by my friend Marc Aroner of Spinoza Rod Company. I saw them when I visited his shop months ago, and coveted them then, but receiving one in the mail was a complete surprise.
I am often asked why I love fly fishing so much. The answer I provide is a simple one: it's something I know I can do for the rest of my life and not know all that there is to know. I know I'll always be learning new things and, in that, I know I'll always be excited.
A few weeks ago, the odds for our today on the water didn't look good. Reports wee the bait were in, but not the fish. Fishermen and guides alike were picking up fish here and there, but nothing in numbers, and nothing at any size. With memories of last year's season and a forecast for cold air and rain, I thought we'd be looking forward to a paid boat ride. The fact that we splashed the boat at 5:30 am was a triumph of hope over experience.
It's 8pm and the spinner fall is on. The trout are rising, and you've identified the pattern. But it's getting hard to see, and you don't like a fly whipping by your face without protective shades on. It's early morning, foggy, and raining. A big fish just rose downstream. But where? You're not sure.
Fads sweep sports like blight to a crop, or like rain to a field. The pattern is one we've all seen many times: early adopters become evangelicals that spread their enthusiasm with infectious energy, good cheer, and the promise of something new. For mountain biking, it was, briefly, single speeds, for skiing telemark and, for beer, the taste of hops.
2014 was a great year for me personally, and for New England on the Fly. I made some good new fishing friends, had some great days on the water -- and, as you know by now, have had a lot of fun producing video. Last night, at the Cheeky sponsored Fly Fishing Film Tour (F3T) in Boston, I shared a new video: a summary of the 2014 fishing year.
As I've written before, I like hunting stripers in Boston Harbor. From a boat, or from shore, I've had decent luck around the harbor -- which, if you ask any of my former colleagues at CLF, is remarkable. Though he wouldn't put it quite like this, my former colleague Peter Shelley is the one who filed the lawsuit that lead to the cleanup of Boston Harbor. When I showed him photos of the stripers we caught there two years ago, he was amazed -- and enormously pleased.
For me, this was not a striper summer. The striped bass action was good early -- schoolies are always a gas after the winter -- but it quickly cooled down, and I had moderate to poor fishing. The savior? Albies.
My dad's bamboo fly rod shop was always there, just out back. Some of my first memories are of the shop -- the sounds of the compressor and the lathe, the smells of metal shavings and wood, the light angling in through the windows. As I grew older, I came to understand it had a time, and a provenance, all its own; it was from another age, and from the hands of two exceedingly talented bamboo fly rod makers: Everett Garrison and my dad, Hoagy B. Carmichael.
