The Green Team.

I walked into the classroom and took my place with the other students along the back wall. We all looked rather nervous as a wiry middle aged man began calling out our names and assigning us to our desks. Naturally, since my last name begins with an E, I was among the first quarter of students chosen. I took my seat, unpacked my school supplies and glanced upward at an image that caught my eye. It was a colored drawing of two large brown trout under a small log jam actively feeding on all three stages of a mayflies existence. A smirk came upon my face. My eighth grade algebra teacher was a fly fisherman. How awesome.

Score One For the Green Team.

Representing.

Green vs. Gold.

Hasta La Vista.

Looking back on that school year, some 10 years ago, I can't help but think how much I didn't know about the sport. I began fly fishing only two years prior and the seeds of addiction had only just begun to sow deep into my soul. On the other hand, Adam had already started bringing his fly tying material to school. I think, our teacher knew that I wasn't all that serious about the sport yet. Not on his level. He knew I fly fished and was rather amused with my curiosities. I was rather amused with his teaching style. He loved throwing erasers at students or powdering them with the excess chalk. I particularly enjoyed the stories from a bygone era of his youth complete with stringers of trout. Another memory is when he brought out an old paddle from his closet that was once used for disciplinary measures. But my favorite part of class was always gazing up at that image of the brown trout. They were perfect.

Bent.

Golden Scoop.

Score Two For the Green Team.

Carpin.

Finger Release.

In middle school our class was split into teams. Ours was aptly named. We both ended up on the Green Team. It had an all star cast of teachers each with their own personalities that gelled into quite the team. That year we attended the Renaissance Fair, performed local stream cleanups, and went on a canoe trip. The Green Team's image is forever emblazoned on our team shirt that both of us still have. Front and center is a fish, resembling a walleye. It is a favorite shirt that begs to be worn on fishing trips. When Adam came by for another day of carping, he was representing the green team. I had no choice but to dig the shirt out of a bag of dirty clothes in the back of the truck and team up with him. On this day, it was the Green Team vs. the Gold Team.

Long Distance Hook Up.

Probing in the Weeds.

Nipples Deep.

Buried Carp.

5x.

The Tide Turns.

He Emerges.

Deep Water Landing.

Super Pumped.

Propulsion.

Carnies.

Descending upon our favorite carping locale, we couldn't help but notice all the cars parked on the streets. Then we noticed the temporary chain linked fence cutting off over half the lake and even going out into the water. Enclosed within the fence were trailers with their glittering signs flashing all sorts of amenities. Funnel cakes, hot wings, ribs, popcorn, caricatures, live music, t-shirts, and everything in between. A festival was taking place in the park and from the looks of it was about to get started. We hopped out of the car and peered out into the lake for the first time wondering how our already skittish carp were reacting to all the hustle and bustle surrounding the lake. We saw a few cruising carp before having to sidestep several golf carts driven by festival organizers and security. This was followed by several conversion vans. This was going to be an interesting day of carping.

We geared up and headed to where the carp were. They had congregated on the only side of the lake that wasn't blocked off from the fence and didn't have any festival related activities along the bank. This happened to be the only spot that we could fish. Needless to say we were both escaping the carnival like atmosphere and the crowds. However, this concentration of fish had its downside. The water was very low and gin clear from the spring creek feeding the lake and the carp were scared out of their minds. They spooked upon seeing flies that they normally would devour. This made the fishing somewhat difficult.

Soon the festival got started and we were stalking golden ghosts on the flats to the tune of several types of music. Depending on where we were lakeside we could listen to r&b, polka, country, and rock. All performed live at the various pavilions. Occasionally the organizers would set off firecracker, a loud one, probably a m80 causing every single carp in the lake to spook simultaneously sending water flying and mud clouds rising. Then something worse descended upon predator and prey: paddle boats. They took off from the opposite side of the lake and soon families were churning up the water and the bottom all throughout the lake. This made the already difficult carping even more interesting. We had music, firecrackers, company, and carp. It was indeed a festival.

Cruisers.

Tanners.

Damsel Scores.

Dragging Her In.

He is Pleased.

The Carp Face.

Gold.

Weaponry & Fuel.

Breaking The Surface.

Desperation Hurl.

The Scoop.

Check Out The Split Tail.

Each Part Works Separately.

Nymphs of All Sizes.

Seeing Eye to Eye.

Release.

More Cruisers.

Taking In The Festivities.

Obstacles and Carp Blocks.

Getting It Done.

Bull Dog.

Admire The Shine.

Burp.

Powering Away.

Skimming.

Picked Up Some Weeds.

Drawing Attention.

Little Kids Got Scared of the Water.

Grip & Grin.

Pound for Pound.

The kayak has opened new saltwater doors for me. No longer confined to land, I can slip through inches of water to sneak into prime casting positions to hit up mangroves, structure and cover, all of the places toothy critters lurk.

Not that I have done any of that yet. I just got the thing.

What I have done, though, is spend a good deal of time chasing birds around our front yard. I can drag the ‘yak across the street, hop in and pursue marauding brown pelicans, roseate terns and black-headed gulls as they pick off the wounded and frightened fry that blue runners, false albacore and mackerel have frightened to within inches of the surface. If I can get close enough without splashing or knocking things against the hull of the boat, I might even get an actual cast or two into the swirling maelstrom before the neon yellow hull puts the fish down and they sprint off to greener pastures.

I can tell that I'll soon have the shoulders and back of a greek god, as well. The fish are quick, and it is all I can do to head them off at a full speed paddle. When they go down, they pop up a few hundred yards away, and you're off again.

Fish breaking the surface, or ‘beating’ as it is called here, are easily seen from my vantage point. The trick is figuring out which way they are heading and paddling like mad to cut them off. If there are just too many birds in the air, particularly the pelicans and roseate terns which are listed endangered species, I wouldn’t dare cast into the furious mess of wings, beaks, fins and teeth and instead I paddle around the edges, dragging a fly behind the ‘yak, hoping for a pull.

I have not succeeded in casting and hooking up yet, but it is only a matter of time and how confident I am that I won’t snag an endangered bird. I have, however, done quite well while trolling.

Mackerel are willing, as long as the fly is far enough away from the frightening color of the kayak. Last week, though, I had a take from something that clearly wasn’t a mackerel. It pulled like nothing I have ever hooked before.

Once a tarpon settles down, you’re in for a bulldog battle. I can liken it to a tug of war.

Once a bonefish is hooked, it lasers for the horizon. Once your drag sinks it’s hooks in, the fish knows it is defeated and more or less gives up.

Blue Runners offer a see-saw battle of gaining line and then giving it back up. They also pull like a bulldog.

Everything else either shows itself with some acrobatics or you’re sight fishing to it and know your quarry ahead of time.

This fish immediately pulled very hard, then bolted directly towards the boat. I frantically reeled slack line for about 20 seconds, thinking that I had been bitten off, when I felt the fish again.

This life on the end of the line, which bent the 10wt dangerously to the cork, literally vibrated with adrenaline. If I didn't stupidly delete the video, you would have been able to see the rod tip vibrating as the fish approached the boat.

It wouldn’t give an inch. Steering the fish with the rod only made it more pissed off. I was forced to let the fish swim circles around the kayak. If I tried to steer it, it would only pull harder. It was so quick that at the slightest pressure from my end, the fish would increase its pressure in the opposite direction and put a seriously dangerous bend in the rod. It is easy to see that this species deserves the reputation as the destroyer of the most fly rods.

When I finally brought the tank in close enough to see it, I realized it was a false albacore. Pound for pound the hardest fighting fish I have ever hooked.

Out of breath from chasing the birds.

I had recently attached the GoPro to the end of a broomstick in the hopes of getting some interesting underwater footage while kayaking. This was the first fish I’ve hooked while having that ability. Needless to say, I was more focused on not breaking my brother’s 10wt than getting some good shots.

It was also one of the prettiest fish I've ever held. The patterns on it's back are reminiscent of a brook trout, only they are not colored to match a dark stream bottom. However, everything this fish represents could not be more removed from the lazy, small stream mentality of a soft-bodied, gently-sipping, resting-in-the-eddy brook trout. To say the fish's body was solid muscle would be an understatement. The thing was made of pure energy, a tightly-wound piano wire, and as I held it for a few moments I could feel how this creature makes its living. Constantly searching, franticly rushing, desperately never stopping.

Carp Blocked.

Trials and Tribulations: Part Two

I finished last summer desperately trying to accomplish one goal. Catch a canal carp. I failed miserably. Fast forward to this new year and on the eve of another el verano my holy grail once again are the elusive ghosts that occupy that forsaken piece of water. As noted last summer in trials and tribulations, the carping at the canal ain't easy. The one mile stretch of carp water is narrow, deep, off colored, full of structure, poison ivy, mosquitos, and they experience every type of fishing pressure on a daily basis. Two out of three times I head to the canal and walk back and forth cranking my neck to the side, I come up empty handed. Thats right, most of the time, I don't even see one. Not even a glimpse. When I finally do see canal gold, its usually because they have already seen me and are swimming for their lives. When I am lucky, and I mean extremely lucky, I am presented with a feeding carp, along the bank, where I am actually able to present him/her with a fly. This is a rarity. So many variables are at play and more often than not I end up being carp blocked.

Of all the factors that come into play fishing for some golden bones at the canal, a few stand out. The number one carp block is the resident canal junkie. These people visit the canal seemingly every day. They ride bikes, walk the dog, go for a jog, swim, throw rocks, and scare the living out of every carp in the vicinity. It is a wonder, I am able to see carp. Oh, and of those 1/3 times I actually see a carp, nine out of ten times they are spooked and traveling up or down the canal at a blistering rate. This is attributed to the daily traffic the canal sees and the pressure from spin, fly, and bow fishermen. The best opportunity you have of not being carp blocked by the junkies is to get their extremely early. My recent attempt at getting there early, was not early enough. I pulled into the parking lot to find an old Cadillac. A half mile down the canal path I found my blocker. It was an eighty year old woman fishing. I didn't see a fish in the first half mile. Only passed her did I have my opportunities. Later on in the morning, she blocked me once again. I was hunched over, kneeling in the poison ivy, kung fu carping two twenty pounders along the bank. The sweet old lady, bless her soul, came right up behind me to see what I was stalking. Needless to say, the carp took off, never to be seen again.

Coming in at a close second, third, and fourth are the following carp blocks. They can be arranged in any particular order because they are very similar and seem to happen every time I am graced with a carps presence. Waterfowl of any kind. With any body of water, there are always birds congregating there to make as much noise and disturbances as possible the moment you get too close for their comfort. Turtles of any kind, including the invasives. Turtles are all over the canal and they freak out the moment you walk down the path as well, hopping and sliding into the water letting every carp in the vicinity know that danger is near. The fourth carp block is just plain old noise. I have seen carp spook from a nearby train, a firecracker going off, a car horn, a cell phone, and even my own voice.

The fifth and sixth carp blocks occur in the heat of the moment when your fly is actually approaching the zone. The first, and the most annoying of all carp blocks are the mosquitos. In the heat of the summer, the mosquitos along the canal are actually terrifying and seemingly immune to 100% deet. It is extremely difficult to concentrate on your descending fly and a monstrosity of a carp when hundreds of mosquitos are buzzing in your ear, burrowing into your skin, and flying under your hood, bandana, and sunglasses. It is uncomfortable stuff. The sixth carp block is every child's favorite: the bluegill. There was nothing I enjoyed more as a youngster than pulling out pumpkinseed after bluegill after pumpkinseed for my father to take off the hook. Now, I loath bluegills. They have ruined so many chances at canal carp glory that I want to destroy every single one of them. It is rather heartbreaking to have a carp descend upon your damsel only to have a three inch eating machine snatch the prize and send thirty pounds of scaled beauty into the depths.

The final carp block is me. I am an idiot. The stars aligned on my last canal outing. I weathered getting carp blocked by all of the above and managed to hook into a seasoned, wild, and rather huge canal carp. The fight lasted around 5-10 minutes before silly me decided to put some extra pressure on a running pissed off fish. I suffered a mental lapse and forgot I had on 4x tippet and was fighting a twenty plus pound piece of bone and muscle. The tide was in my favor and the next thing I knew the carp had a second wind. He blitzed for a downed tree on the opposite bank. My drag screamed and I placed my fingers on the line to slow her down some more. Next I put a little more torque on the rod and just like it always does, you envision and have a feeling the line is about to snap, followed by a glimmer of hope that it won't, then the reality of a limp line flying back at your face.

There are so many variables at play in this game, so many obstacles in the path towards success, but when it all boils down to it, I am the final straw. I have to overcome all of that in order to reach my pinnacle. In the moment, when all that adrenaline is pumping and all those outside disturbances are encroaching upon me, I have to make the cast, I have to make the hook set, and I have to play and land the fish of a lifetime.

Easier said, than done.

Enlightenment.

I am not exactly sure when the switch was flipped but over the past two years I have transformed. I have become increasingly more mellow and laid back on the water. In the past, I was (I don't want to use this word) a little too hardcore about fly fishing. It was guns a blazing, 100 mph, all the time from sunup until sundown. My friends and I were always the first ones in the parking lot and the last ones to leave well after dark. We counted the fish we caught and boasted about the size of fish. We competed for water and let our body language let everyone know how we felt. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner were an afterthought. Hell, we were lucky if we paused for the occasional Red Bull. We entered waterways looking like special Ops soldiers knowing they were in it for a long haul. Instruments hanged off of every loop and boxes created bulges in every pocket. Chest waders were worn in the heat of summer with nary an afterthought on how useless they can be at times. We even joked that in Pennsylvania, there are three things we are never late for...(I think you can finish this sentence).

Low, Clear, and Gorgeous.

Only Adam Would Spot This Guy.

Dragon Emerging.

Life Finds a Way.

Drying Before Take Off.

Nirvana.

It might have been the onset of the real world creeping into my horizon or it might have been just a greater appreciation of fly fishing that triggered this change. I think it all began the first time, I slept through an alarm that was designed to specifically wake me up for a day of fishing. Now, it seems that this happens a lot more than it probably should. I think it culminated the first time, I decided to take pictures rather than fish when large trout abounded all around. In between all of that, numbers and size became an afterthought. The amount of gear brought on the water shrank considerably to the point where a vest has not been worn in two years. Wet wading has started to begin in April rather than July. A camera has become the weapon of choice to capture a moment, rather than a fly rod. A new riffle or run has become a place to sit, relax, and take it all in. Through this change, an expanded awareness for the environment in which we enjoy our quarry has finally emerged. Joy is obtained just by being there rather than catching fish and not actually being there.

Company.

I Think The Group of Boy Scouts Walking Canoes Was Worse.

Yea Well.

Trout To Match The Scenery.

Red Spots.

Beat Up Bow.

Sulphur Emerger.

Spray.

Want a 4wt Switch?

Take Apart Some Old Rods, Get Some Electrical Tape, & Behold.

I think this all came to the forefront on a recent excursion to a beautiful place. It was an ideal weekend and sulphurs had been hatching near nightfall. We slept in, took breaks, and packed light. We spent a little more than a day casually fishing a lot of water, wading through forests of poison ivy, and finding a variety of cool critters in the riparian zone. We enjoyed the day rather than get frustrated by low clear water, extremely wary trout, and a horde of kayakers and canoes. We caught some fish, tried taking some pictures, and left content with the outing and the experience. We had successfully escaped, long enough to find our happy place before returning to the real world. A real world, that has allowed us to put into perspective, the time spent on the water.

Poison Ivy Everywhere.

A River Runs Through Adam.

Little & Super Smart.

I Still Get Frustrated Sometimes.

Typical Brown.

Ever Look Up?

Something Big Lurks Here.

Joy.