One angler's journey, fly fishing through life

Category: Uncategorized (Page 2 of 3)

Captain Greg and the Montauk Monster

“Even a fishless morning can still be a great day because of the experience earned and knowledge gained. Count the hours, not the fish. Be an observer, look for things, think about what’s going on around you, work the structure and remember that time on the water builds casting and fishing skills.”

Bob Popovics

I met Captain Greg Cudnik at the Barnegat Light marina, where his 25-foot Parker, “Endless Summer”, was docked. It was “Oh-dark-thirty” and the air was unusually warm for November. On past trips, I would have been dressing up with foul weather gear and layers of warm clothing, but not this time. The ocean water temps were still in the 60’s, 10 degrees higher than normal and air temps and weather had been unseasonably warm.

“It was really blowing at my house”, Greg remarked as I got my gear out, implying some concern about the day’s fishing prospects. It was definitely breezy at the marina, but I was hoping the fly-fishing gods would mediate that for this trip.

We geared up and headed out in the early dawn. Captain Greg powered the Endless Summer into the inlet as the ocean poured into the bay at peak flood tide. I had two10 weight and two 9 weight fly rods rigged and ready, the former with T-14 and T-17 sinking heads and the latter each with a floating line and intermediate line.

An Atlantic Menhaden, aka as “bunker”. These baitfish can exceed 6″ in length.

We began casting the sinking head rigs and large bunker patterns as there were bunker everywhere. They were so thick in places that the water took on a purple hue where these baitfish were concentrated. Bunker are filter feeders and a prime source of food for striped bass. The stripers will at times crash through pods but are more likely to sit below them waiting for an errant or confused bunker to stray from the protection of the school. A common technique to catch very large striped bass is to live line bunker, and that’s what most of the boats out around Barnegat Inlet were doing. Indeed, last year in late November I caught a 40 lb bass with Captain Greg using that exact technique, after several fruitless hours of dredging with a sinking line and bunker fly. Admittedly, I had given up the ghost that day…

Big striper caught live lining…

And so, on this trip I was out for another go, trying to get a larger bass to come to the fly. I’d had plenty of success in the past with nice schoolie and schoolie-plus bass, as well as some very nice bluefish, but a solid striper had eluded me.

I fished a large bunker fly deep along the north side of the jetty to no avail for over an hour. Captain Greg was “feeling” a change to topwater and wanted me to try a large popper. I had a big-bodied bug made for saltwater and tied it on to my 9 weight floating line rig. To my delight, not much casting was needed to fish the popper over the submerged rocks of the north jetty. The flood tide had set up an ideal drift along the jetty. Greg expertly positioned his boat ass-end and “up-current” to the submerged rocks. The flood tide poured over them, creating big standing waves and a perfect ambush site for the bass that so love turbulent wash-water and rocks (in Maryland, stripers are referred to as “rockfish”). Any bunker that strayed too close to the hydraulic set up by the flood tide was surely going to get carried away over the rocks, banged up, and disoriented. Smaller baitfish have a hard time holding in such fast, turbulent water and they are prime pickings for a big, powerful, bass. All I had to do was occasionally cast over the submerged rocks, popping the bug up current, and then let it slide back over the rocks. At times all of the fly line was off the rod tip, with me using the backing to pop the bug.

We worked the length of the submerged jetty and after a time I got a slashing strike that missed the popper. Greg expertly held the boat in position as we drifted along and then I was onto something very solid, followed by a powerful run that caused my 30 lb dacron backing to tangle around my wrist and come tight with no give. I scrambled to untangle at the risk of injuring my wrist as dacron under strain can be sharp, but before I could clear the line, it popped, and went slack. This fish had broken the backing and not at the backing knot! My heart sunk for losing such a fish as well as all of my floating fly line, my leader, and the popper.

After collecting myself, I broke out my 9 weight rod rigged with intermediate line. Greg went through my fly box and found a large white streamer. This fly was tied on a 6/0 short-shanked hook with a spun deerhair head tipped with scarlet red. two big eyes, and a body of long white hackle and white ostrich herl, a good 6″ in length. I couldn’t recall where I got it or what it was named but Greg felt it would be a great choice to fish just under the surface. Greg added that often times big muskie flies do well for stripers.

The Montauk Monster

I fished this big streamer like I had the popper, casting it to the rocks and letting it slide over them in the flood tide, then stripping it back in with erratic movements and letting it slide out again in the frothy wash of the tide. We slowly made our way towards the beach and parallel to the submerged rocks. It wasn’t long before I was onto something solid. Backing stripped off the reel in head-shaking surges, my 9 weight bowing to the submerged jetty, as the fish hung close to the rocks.

It took a while, but slowly I gained back my fly line. Greg had the net out and with one good sweep landed my personal best striper on the fly.

Personal best – 28″ and roughly 12 lbs.

After releasing this striper, we returned to our station along the rocks. It was not long before I was into a nice bass again…

Hooked up! Note the large standing waves where the flood tide races over the submerged jetty. Barnegat Light stands proudly in the background.

As with the prior fish, this bass held heavy in the wash but over time, it was landed and quickly released.

A second nice striper in hand with the Montauk Monster placed perfectly in the corner of the mouth.

We continued to fish the remnants of the flood tide and I tied into another good bass, but the hook pulled mid-way through the fight. After that the bite turned off, even for the live liners fishing near us. I suspect the change of the tide had something to do with the shut-down.

Bass on the fly. That’s a TFO BVK 9 weight blank I built that’s served me well fly fishing, saltwater. The standing waves are from flood tide current racing over submerged jetty rocks. The boats in the background are fishing the inlet.

When we got back in after this great trip, I promised Greg I’d dig up the name of this fly that served us so well. The movement in the water was, as Greg would describe it, “Sexy.” At 6.5″ in length and mainly white, it surely matched the large bunker that schooled above the bass. Driving home the next day, it came back to me: I’d bought it online through Orvis – it was called “The Montauk Monster.”

The Montauk Monster had proven itself. After doing some research on this fly I found that it is the creation of Joshua Fine, a veterinarian. Fine is a featured fly tyer for Orvis who reportedly put a tremendous number of hours in developing this fly at the bench and in field trials before he came up with the winning combination. After all the development work, Fine reportedly what maty have seemed like an eternity tying samples and creating the material list and technical drawings for Orvis. The ostrich herl compresses when wet which makes it easier to cast. Though I didn’t do a ton of casting with this fly, it did appear to be a much easier cast than the bunker fly I was fishing earlier that day.

Motivated by the fly’s success on our trip, Captain Greg tied a few for future trips and the results were inspiring.

Greg’s initial tie of the Montauk Monster

In fly fishing there are two general schools of thought as to effectiveness, one being that fly selection is of primary consideration, the other being that proper presentation is more important than fly selection. There are times when one or the other on their own can make the day, but in my experience it’s usually a blend of the two. The right fly fished poorly generally won’t work, nor will pure presentation when the fish are on a specific bite. On this memorable day with Captain Greg, I’d say we fished correctly in terms of the method, location, and tide. And, we also had the Montauk Monster…

A Southern Tier Fly Fisher Thanksgiving

Perhaps you’re one of the lucky ones, like Jeff, a past visitor to this blog, who, in the company of another angling friend, celebrates the start of Thanksgiving Day fly fishing Fall Creek every year.  Most of us with families, and especially those who have angling-averse families, must resign ourselves to the traditional family get-together; watching football, drinking, and eventually sitting down at table adorned with turkey, stuffing, sweet potatoes, cranberry relish, gravy, more drink, pumpkin pie, and more drink.  It’s not all bad, mind you.  It’s just that the holiday is all about giving thanks, and what better way to give thanks than to catch and release a few.

Striper on the fly released pre-Thanksgiving…

My destiny this year, as in all years past, is chewing on a drumstick while visions dance in my head of fly fishing for stripers and blues with Captain Greg Cudnik out of Barnegat Light, NJ. Late November fly fishing in the salt can be very, very good. And in terms of table fare, striped bass is exceptionally good, though I release almost all I catch,

Hooked up earlier this November on the Endless Summer with Barnegat Light in the background.

My mother always drummed into my head, no pun intended, that if you’re handed lemons, make lemonade, and so I decided to do a little research regarding this historic event in hopes that my findings might support a change in the family tradition – a change that might even extend to a cultural renaissance of this feasting holiday.  What follows is sure to enlighten…

The Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock on December 11, 1620 – towards the end of the striper run, oh by the way.  Apparently, the Pilgrims were not too skilled with the fly or any other manner of fishing, because their first winter was terrible.  They lost 46 of the original 102 who sailed on the Mayflower, to starvation.  The next year, however, smiled on the survivors, as the harvest of 1621 was bountiful.  The colonists, along with 91 Wampanoag Indians (credited with saving them from complete disaster), decided to celebrate their good fortune with a feast.

Broiled bluefish, Squanto?

And what did that feast include?  Well, my research shows many variations in the menu, but by most accounts, one traditional item that almost assuredly was missing was, of all things, turkey.  Turkey was present in the wild at the time of the first Thanksgiving, but the word “turkey” was used by the Pilgrims to mean any sort of wild fowl.   Good ole’ gun-toting Governor William Bradford apparently sent four men “fowling”, so more than likely, any “turkey” in the center of the table was actually a sea duck or goose.  Also missing from the feast was the potato, considered poisonous by many Europeans at the time, and dairy products, since there were no domestic cattle available.

From other accounts and records of daily life in Plymouth, we know that rabbit, chicken, squashes, beans, chestnuts, hickory nuts, onions, leeks, dried fruits, maple syrup and honey, radishes, cabbage, carrots, eggs, and possibly goat cheese were available, although not necessarily all used in the same meal. The corn was most likely in the form of meal rather than on the cob, and pumpkin would have been served in the form of a pumpkin pudding or stew, and not in a crust.

Most noticeably “on the list” were some items few Americans would ever consider to be Thanksgiving table fare.  Governor Bradford lists bass, cod, and “other fish of which they took good store”, these fish being herring, bluefish, and lots of eels. Clams, lobsters (without the drawn butter), mussels, and oysters were undoubtedly part of dinner, too.

So, seafood, yes, seafood, made up a good part, if not the majority, of the original Thanksgiving meal.  And how might that seafood come to our modern-day Thanksgiving table?  You guessed it; fly fishers could go out and catch, and maybe this one time of the year, not release, their favorite piscatorial delight for part of the feast.  Imagine the pomp and circumstance as the weary fly fisherman returns in the early afternoon to spread the day’s bounty across the table for all to marvel over.  This addition to Thanksgiving would surely strengthen the tradition, put smiles on the multitudes, and kill TV ratings around all the damn football games that play that day.

I therefore propose that the readership spread the word.  This isn’t your grandfather’s Thanksgiving anymore – go forth and fish up some fare, and put a little Thanksgiving in Thanksgiving…

To all, a safe, belly-expanding, and joyous holiday…

Tight lines…

Connections

Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.

John 15:13

One of the great themes in fly fishing is that of connection. We hold a fly rod in hand, to which a reel, our line and a fly of choice are all connected, and we send that fly to the water to ultimately connect with a living thing.

We are also connected to place as fly fishermen. As such, a favorite of mine has always been the Chenango River, a place I’ve enjoyed wet wading in early September when the smallmouth bass are sensing the turn of the river. Their metabolism, then, holds its summer-high and the bass instinctively heed nature’s call and feed aggressively knowing that fall and a long winter of starvation approaches. It’s still early though – the green of the surrounding old hills hemming in the river hasn’t faded just yet, though an errant maple may have decided otherwise with a faint flash of autumn hues.

Seasons play a tug of war this time of year. The nights, cooling with the dwindling daylight, still yield daily to the lingering warmth of late summer. You’re caught casting the river with big streamers to match the baitfish that have been growing since spring, and hoping the fishing holds on a little longer than last year…

Wading slowly downriver, one makes casts to undercut and shaded banks, across soft ripples, and into the deeper pools, and if on a good day the bass are in play. There can be some good tugs from a few dandies with fallfish mixed in, and in one deep hole, a big channel cat may just decide to crush a size 2 wooly bugger swept deep across its hold.

The wade continues and in the dying of the day, I’ll leave the river and return to my truck, not knowing until recently that the river provided a far deeper connection than the tug of fish pursued, and one that represented the highest calling in life.

My parents and much of my family on both sides, grew up in Staten Island, NY, one of the five boroughs of New York City. Back in their day, it was a good place to grow up, and very much a melting pot. They both advanced through the NYC Public School system, ending with Curtiss High School and a sound education. Among their classmates was a good-looking and very well-dressed kid named “Vinnie” – Vincent Robert Capodanno Jr. Both of my parents knew him fairly well apparently, my father in particular, but neither mentioned him until one day, when my mother told me that she and my father graduated high school with a Marine who died in Viet Nam and received the Medal of Honor. I don’t recall the reason this came up or whether she stated his name, but she claimed he had jumped on a grenade to save the lives of other Marines in his company.

Vincent Capodanno went on after high school to become a Navy Chaplain after first being ordained a Catholic priest and serving time as a Maryknoll Missionary. Intrigued by his story in the military and the connection to my family, I searched for this hero over the years but to no avail as my parents had never told me his name. And then one day I hit it right while googling the internet, and up he came with his story of true sacrifice.

Father Capodanno was known as the “Grunt Padre” because of his devotion to “his Marines.” He was unique in that he would intentionally go on operations where risks were the greatest and in complete disregard to policy for chaplain conduct in the field. Even under direct orders to stay back, he would sneak off and hop on a Huey to be where the action was hot and where he could do, in his own words, the most good. It was said he would carry extra supplies, give his poncho to a needy Marine, provide smokes, candy, and Saint Christopher medals. He carried a pack like all the other Marines, slept in the mud, endured the sweltering heat, the insects and the toil of long marches. He said Mass in the field, heard confessions, and offered an ear to listen to the concerns and fears of young soldiers in a foreign, far-away land.

Father Capodanno, saying Mass in the field…

After reading several books about him, I soon learned that Father Capodanno’s sacrifice was a bit different than what my mother had told me, but nonetheless, one that earned him, posthumously, the Medal of Honor and a path to sainthood in the Catholic Church.

Although he served in several combat operations during his tour, some in which he was wounded, his participation in Operation Swift would turn out to be the end for him and many other Marines. At 4:30 am, on September 4, 1967, company-sized elements of the 1st Battalion 5th Marines encountered a large North Vietnamese unit of approximately 2,500 men near the village of Dong Son in the Thang Bin District of the Que Son Valley. Outnumbered by over 5 to 1, Companies B and D were badly in need of reinforcements as the fighting intensified. By 9:14 am, 26 Marines were confirmed dead. At 9:25 am, the commander of 1st Battalion 5th Marines requested further reinforcements. M and K companies were whisked into action by helicopter that morning, and among them was Father Capodanno.

The ground fire in the vicinity of the proposed landing zone (LZ) just east of Hill 63 and the Dong Son village where B and D companies were fighting was so great that the choppers were forced to set down a distance away. This required both companies to march roughly 2.5 miles to the action under extremely hot and humid conditions.

A command post (CP) and aid station were set up on a small knoll, the other side of which raged the battle. Father Capodanno could hear the gunfire and PFC Stephen A. Lovejoy, M company radio operator, calling back to the command post: “We’ve been overrun. We can’t hold out.”

The CP on the knoll, after action. Note the captured rocket-propelled grenades and automatic weapons used in the battle by the PAVN.

Operation Swift

Father Capodanno dashed over the hill, found PFC Lovejoy, grabbed him by the shoulder and brought him back to the relative safety of the CP. Time and again throughout that late morning and early afternoon Father Capodanno would do the same thing with the wounded and dying. His first wound of the day was a shot through his right hand disabling his fingers. He was bandaged but refused to leave the battlefield on the next medevac. “I need to be where my Marines need me most,” he said. Choking in the midst of tear gas deployed to make the North Vietnamese disperse, Father Capodanno—who had given his gas mask to a young Marine who was without one—got his second wound from a mortar shell, disabling his whole right arm and shoulder. He was bandaged up but again refused to leave the battlefield.

A short time later, Father Capodanno ran to aid another wounded Marine, Seargent Lawrence David Peters, Squad Leader of the 2nd Platoon. Though mortally wounded in the chest, Peters had propped himself up against a tree stump, exposing himself to enemy fire in order to direct weapons fire on enemy machine gun positions on the adjacent ridge. No one dared go near Sergeant Peters, except Father Capodanno, who ran to the dying man’s side despite the intense weapons fire and his own wounds, to pray with the Marine and to care for him in his last minutes of life.

Seargent Lawrence D. Peters, Binghamton son…

The last moments of Father Capodanno’s own life took place near an enemy machine gun nest that three Marines were trying to take out. All three men were cut down, two killed instantly and a third, Ray Harton, shot through his left shoulder. A corpsman went to Harton’s aid but was quickly shot through both legs. As both men lay bleeding on the battlefield, Father Capodanno ran to them. He first went to Harton, who had served the priest’s Mass the day before, anointed him and said, “Stay calm, Marine, God is with us all today and you’re going to be OK.” Then he ran to the side of the corpsman, with his legs shot up—who was also a Catholic—and prayed over him, while shielding him. As he prayed, Father Capodanno was shot 27 times in the back.

Father Vincent Capodanno, Navy Chaplain, LT USNR

It was only after reading several books on Father Capodanno that I found yet another serendipitous connection in this story. Seargent Peters, it turns out, was Binghamton born and raised, and was also awarded the Medal of Honor posthumously for his heroic actions that fateful day. And even more ironic, I learned he was buried in Chenango Valley Cemetery, not far from the Chenango River.

Call it serendipity, chance, or destiny, that my parents brought me into this world and that through them I found a connection to their classmate and friend who would become a priest, Navy chaplain, Medal of Honor winner, and Servant of God on his way to sainthood. That chaplain came to the aid of a young Marine who grew up just down the road from where I’ve lived these last 30 years. On that hot humid day in a part of the world so unlike home, Father Capodanno gave Seargent Lawrence Peters last rites amidst the cacophony of battle before he himself succumbed shielding another mortally wounded Marine.

And so, I’ll never fish the Chenango River the same, as I’ve fished it in years past in search of smallmouth bass on the feed. I’ll fish it reverently on these early fall days and wade it as if walking on sacred ground, knowing the deep and heroic connections that lie just off the river’s banks.

Fly fishing in Jerry’s front yard…

“The house was built on the highest part of the narrow tongue of land between the harbor and the open sea. It had lasted through three hurricanes and it was built solid as a ship.”

Islands in the Stream

Ernest Hemingway

It was mid-April and my wife and I were in Destin, Florida, our “happy place,” but I was not completely happy. The weather was sunny and mildly warm, with the winds out of the south at 15 to 20 mph blowing across the gulf – a huge fetch of water – and the surf was up. Rip tide warnings were posted in the weather forecast and the surf flags flew the dreaded red, doubles no less, standing straight out in the wind, as in “stay out of the water.”

For flyfishers of the Emerald Coast, April can be an incredible time to fish for pompano which are migrating northward along the Gulf and Atlantic coast of Florida, searching the warmer coastal waters, and on the feed after spawning in the Gulf, offshore. Pompano will move seeking their ideal water temperature, moving inshore from the Gulf after spawning for warmer coastal waters above 68 degrees and then moving north ever-seeking water in the 68-to-75-degree range, not too hot and not too cold.

It was pure torture for this flyfisher, knowing the fish were there and not being able to get to them with the high surf conditions. So, I monitored the weather daily, viewing the beach cams and hoping and praying to see a drop in wave height and action. Unfortunately, as long as the wind remained blowing strongly out of the south, the surf just continued to build and get dirty, another condition that can turn the bite off for pompano.

After a week of this, I finally noticed a change in the forecast that predicted a wind shift out of the north. On the Florida panhandle, northerly winds translate to lower surf, and better access for fly anglers who generally must wade out to fish from the first bar. Conventional anglers need only wade out to cast a long line, anchoring their baits, then retreating to the beach where they can wait for the bite while basking in the sun on the beach.

Meteorologists get a bad rap for forecast accuracy but Weather.com was right on the money when it forecast a wind shift. Early the following morning I stared in disbelief at a surf that was almost as calm as a mill pond. The surf laid down to the point where I was wondering if what I saw on the beach cam was a still picture in place of the usual video stream. The winds were still on the breezy side, but I could deal with that. A coffee or two later, I saddled up in the golf cart, gear at the ready, my 8 weight TFO BVK home-build strung up with a 350-grain intermediate sink tip line and 5-foot leader, with a pink and white clouser, size 4, on the business end.

A pink and white clouser – a terrific searching pattern to use for pompano, as well as redfish, ladyfish, and sea trout. Like rainbow trout, pompano like a little bling.

I parked near the beach access and made the hike eastward beyond the hotel beaches where swimmers and sun-bathers were already taking station. Soon I was striding at a good pace along the wet sand, eyes on the water for bird play, signs of fish, and surf structure. The water was crystal clear and the white sand bars stood out in contrast to the emerald green and deeper blue of the troughs.

Beautiful Destin – looking westward to where I was fishing. Note the first and second bars and the trough between them. Often times the pompano will cruise that trough and come up on the first bar in search of food.

On my way, I stopped and talked to a spin angler, hoping he’d gotten into some pompano. He was fishless at that point but reported a good knockdown on his rod soon after his first cast. I remained hopeful as I continued eastward, pausing at a spot where the last house on the beach stood – a massive single floor mansion that had the look of a bunker – it’s outer skin concrete white – dotted with a series of magnificent windows looking south over the beach and to the expanse of the gulf. Beyond this house was the Topsail Hill Preserve Park and miles of unoccupied beach. Normally I would continue on to a place where I had done very well on previous visits, but this place looked fishy, and the first trough took an appealing curve in close to the beach. I decided to drop my pack there, under the stony gaze of that mansion, and give it a try…

I waded a bit beyond the first bar, waist-deep in the still relatively cool clear gulf surf, fanning casts out to the deeper water off the edge of the bar, then stripping the fly back in short erratic retrieves. A few skipjack, smaller but very aggressive surf dwellers, would annoyingly attack the fly and sometimes hook up. But after a few minutes I finally came tight to what would turn out to be my first of over a dozen pompano, with half as many lost. As typical with pompano, the take was solid and followed by some spastic headshakes and then the launch of a fish with drag-strip speed.

A beautiful pompano of good size. These fish are terrific gamefish on the fly rod, having tremendous speed (note the forked tail), and using all of that deep side profile to their advantage in the fight. They also are wonderful on the grill, with firm slightly oily flesh and a skin that crisps. Amazing table fare.

I landed that first fish under the gaze of a few beach-combing onlookers. Much to my delight, the bite lasted an hour and a half. At times, large schools of pompano of 30 or more would cruise through, their silvery sides shimmering as they scavenged for sand fleas, crabs, and small baitfish.

The sand flea or mole crab, a favorite food of pompano, among other surf-dwelling fish. These crustaceans inhabit what is known as the swash zone, the wet sand area where the surf coats the sand and retreats. The sand flea can hold its appendages close to its body, allowing it to roll in the tidal currents and waves but it can also quickly dig into the sand and disappear from predators.

The fishing was on and off as the pompano cruised the trough – fast and furious one moment, dead the next, requiring fast casting when sighting an approaching school, almost always followed by immediate hook-ups.

Vlahos’ Marbled Sand Flea – a great fly pattern designed to imitate the real thing. I have used this pattern with great success – cast it out, let it sink, and let the surf move it about, interspersed with occasional strips and hang on!

My time fishing on the bar was as always almost magical in terms of the plethora of marine life seen, including sea turtles, rays, schools of big jacks moving through just out of casting reach, distant sightings of porpoise, and an occasional shark. On this day, one very large shark sauntered in, sinister black against the white of the sand bar, leaving me to slowly vacate his hunting grounds until he was well out of sight.

As in most of life, all good things must come to an end. Perhaps porpoises had moved in stealthily to drive the fish off, or maybe the pompano just moved on as is often the case with many fish of the surf, roaming endlessly for miles in their incessant search for food. The previous spring, I had fished this same bite but had given up in desperation with waves that occasionally broke over me as I fished the trough. On that venture I witnessed a pack of porpoises herding the pompano and playing with them like a cat does with a mouse, literally flinging the fish high into the air just 30 feet from me. At least I knew I had found the pompano, but who could blame them for ignoring my fly when fleeing for their life!

Having had more than a day’s worth of fun, I grabbed my pack and started my walk back to the beach access hidden in a morass of beach hotels and towering condos. On the way I stopped to speak with a spin angler who was set up with several surf rods. He was an older man, sporting a colorful shirt that worked hard to stay buttoned. We talked about the fishing and after learning of my success, the angler inquired as to where I’d found fish. I described the place, and this affable fellow immediately recognized it. “Oh,” he said, “that place belongs to Jerry Jones. I know Jerry through his son…” On he went with a long-winded oratory about his bountiful business connections, his southern drawl mixing with the cacophony of sunbathers close-by – radios playing, laughing gulls on the breeze, kids shrieking, water lapping up on the sugary sand. And all the while above his chat, the high-pitched whine of my fly reel played in my ear. The warmth of that late morning just sweetened the happiness of coming home after some solid fishing.

After politely disengaging the spin angler, I continued my homeward walk. It was close to noon, and the hotel beaches were crowded with vacationers from places like Columbus, Ohio, Ridgeland, Mississippi, and Memphis, Tennessee – the heartland and the southeast- all basking in the warmth of the sun, adoring the brilliant Gulf waters, and enjoying a mere sip of the good life that attracts so many to such a place. Seeing them and thinking of my own short visit made me wonder whether Jerry Jones even stayed at his place and whether he knew what lay just beyond his very own front yard…

The place that Jerry built…

A broken stick…

I saw Gabe driving his truck towards me as I took a walk during lunch at work. He stopped when he saw me and after some small talk, asked, “Can you repair a broken fly rod”? I hesitated in responding, then said I had never repaired a rod but would look into it and get back to him.

I’ve built nine fly rods to date, each a better version of the last. With each build I’ve learned new techniques, new tricks of the trade, and more efficient methods. But rod repair was an entirely new frontier.

So I researched it. For one, this repair involved marrying together two broken rod pieces, or so I thought. I later learned, upon receipt of the broken rod, that it was two broken sections of the tip piece of a two piece rod. But YouTube is really a great learning resource. In no time I found very good instruction on the method for repairing a broken rod. The key is the use of a spigot ferrule to rebuild the break.

Mending a fly rod takes time, care, and ultimately a bit of love. Gabe made the mistake of trying to beach a steelhead – a 10 pounder – and he let his non-grip hand slide up the blank to do it – an often fatal error. The butt section of a fly rod is where the power is – increasing leverage up the blank just stresses the upper section of the rod blank.

So I took the broken tip section of the blank, shattered graphite – each section jagged and splintered – and thought, “this should be interesting”. I bought a Dremel to even out the bones of each broken section so they’d join as evenly as possible. The fractures in the graphite traveled up the blank with micro cracks, making it difficult to decide where to draw the line on the repair. Cut more of the blank away and you shorten the rod and subsequently alter the way the pieces fit in terms of diameter, and the action as well. Leave the fracture and wrap up to cover it to a reasonable extent and one is left with the nagging question about how far up the blank the fractures could propagate, and possibly fail again.

I did my best, remembering the pictures Gabe showed me of steelhead caught on that stick, pictures of his young boys gathered about the big fish, smiling and proud of Dad. Gabe explained he’d really like to pass the rod on to his boys while he used the new Aetos he got as a replacement from Fenwick.

Turns out this rod has had half as many lives as a cat supposedly does, it’s lineage starting with a 12 weight of all things with an extra fore grip for saltwater big game that Gabe used to slay big Kings on the Salmon River. Some big King broke that rod, and Fenwick replaced it, as it did time and again for failure on the water. The 12 was replaced with another 12, then an 11, and then the 10 that I had for surgery. Gabe’s last go-round with Fenwick for warranty replacement ended with an 8/9 weight Aetos. But as he said to me, “if I could repair the current rod, why not let it live another life”…

So surgery started with a plan. The surgery consisted of cutting back the damaged blank, fitting it with a spigot ferrule, gluing the sections together, wrapping them like a true ferrule, and sealing / coating the wrap with marine spar varnish.

Since I had nothing to use for a spigot ferrule (i.e., old blanks, broken rods, etc.,), I had to purchase a cheap blank. I chose a 9 foot 8 weight 4 piece fast action fly rod blank. Each spigot ferrule is actually composed of two ferrules; a primary that in this case extended 2″ either side of the break, and a secondary, that is inserted into the primary spigot ferrule and adds extra support to the fly rod’s stress point and helps taper the primary spigot ferrule.

Shown above at the top of this picture is the fly rod with the cleaned up break. Below the fly rod is the primary spigot ferrule that is inserted into the blank, extending roughly 2″ either side of the break when inserted into the blank. The bottom piece is the secondary spigot ferrule that is inserted into the primary spigot ferrule to eliminate the stress point at the fly rod break and help taper the action around the break point.

The secondary (smaller) spigot ferrule is coated with 2 part epoxy and inserted into the primary spigot ferrule. Once the epoxy is dry, the primary spigot ferrule is again coated with 2 part epoxy and inserted up the lower end of the broken blank and this forms the male spigot ferrule.

Shown here is the primary spigot ferrule epoxied in place in the butt section of the broken fly rod. The next step is to epoxy the female ferrule in place.

Once the male spigot ferrule is epoxied to the upper female end of the blank, the joint is allowed to cure. Alignment of guides from both pieces is obviously critical.

The joined rod is shown here – as nicely as the two broken ends can be aligned, there will always be a small gap. The two internal spigot ferrules will allow the joint to work and taper the action.

20+ years ago, fly rod designs didn’t allow for a continuous diameter or taper in the blank. The upper section had to flare dramatically to fit over the lower section and still have enough strength to withstand flexing, so there was often a significant difference in rod diameter from one inch below the ferrule to one inch above it. This led to some sloppy rod action and breakage problems.

The original tip over butt or sleeve ferrule. Note the increased thickness of the ferrule as compared to the blank. This added bulk was needed to prevent the ferrule from failing before the advancements in fly rod design and materials.

The internal ferrule, on the other hand, while more labor-intensive to build, allowed for a continuous diameter from below the ferrule to above because the upper section didn’t have to fit over the entire diameter of the section below it. With more consistent diameters and tapers, internal-ferrule rods provided smoother action. They are still used by some fly rod manufacturers. Scott fly rods, for one, still uses the internal or spigot ferrule on its classic “G” series of medium action fly rods.

A spigot ferrule…

Once both breaks were joined and cured, it was time to wrap over the break. As improved as fly rod design and materials are, wraps are still used to reinforce the female ferrule. In the case of this break, I needed to make sure the female and male ends were reinforced as microcracks at the original break point could migrate under the stress of flexing and eventually lead to failure.

Wrapping started roughly an inch below the break and ended an inch above the break. Once this was complete, I applied 7 coats of Epifanes Marine Spar Varnish to the wraps, beginning with the varnish cut 50% with mineral spirits so it could thoroughly penetrate the wrapping thread. Each coat was allowed to dry 24 hours before the next application. After the final coat, I allowed the rod to dry several days before testing the rod with lawn casting.

Repaired sections of the fly rod shown at roughly 10 o’clock and 2 o’clock in the upper portion of this picture…
Focused picture of one of the repairs, lower right glossy black. In retrospect, I should have used a lighter gray thread and a non-glossy varnish so the repair blended in with the blank better.
Casting the finished rod – the Fenwick HMX 9 foot 10 weight easily laid out 40+ feet of WF10 floating line. While I never cast the original, the repaired fly rod felt beautiful and buttery smooth in hand. My dog, Maddie seems to approve, giving a loud bark at the end!

And so with the rod complete, I handed it back to Gabe, but on one condition. I asked for pictures; smiling faces, huddled about a lake-run steelhead held up high and a 10 weight fly rod in the foreground, a mended soul, a family treasure returned…

Remembering Don…

In memory of Donald A. Calder

A great bass fisherman, an even better fisher of men…

9/5/29 – 8/3/15

I quartered my streamer up-current and let it sink, dead drift, in the river braid. As it swept past me, I pulled it back in short strips interspersed with a pause – letting the olive marabou and the silly legs of the fly do an enticing water dance. Midway back the fly stopped abruptly and I swept-set the hook. My fly rod took a deep bend with the pull of a solid fish. Nothing exploded skyward on the set, so I knew this was not a smallmouth bass. Whatever this was just throbbed in the current, moving powerfully upriver, then twisting back with random but decidedly heavy surges that tested my drag. The fight continued a time; a tug of war followed by heavy sullen plodding. I started to think I had a big channel catfish on the line.

The fish continued the fight even at my feet, then finally emerged, turning away once more with the slap of its tail. I saw in that boil of river water, green and gold and white and began to wonder about this “catfish.” Then I brought to hand the biggest walleye of my fly fishing life…

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I pulled him up carefully, respectful of his canines and sharp gill plates, and laid him where the river lapped the bank. Standing back with camera in hand, I marveled at his length, the green mottling of his back against golden-hued flanks and his ivory-white underbelly. His river camouflage was that of a warplane – coloring that made him invisible against the sky from below and perfectly invisible against the river bottom when seen from above.

After a quick picture I returned the walleye to the river. With one hand beneath his broad pectoral fins and the other grasping the narrow of his tail, I held him head-up into the current. His gills flared and as I felt the life come back to him, I loosened my grip at the base of his tail. With a strong sway of his head he pulled away and slipped back to the river, swimming slowly across the braid, melting into the bottom. And that is when I remembered Don and smiled to myself at the thought of his disdain for walleyes: “they fight like a bag of rocks”, I’d heard him say on more than a few occasions.

“All Americans believe that they are born fishermen. For a man to admit a distaste for fishing would be like denouncing mother-love or hating moonlight.”

John Steinbeck

It was in August of 2015 that I got a call from Bill – Don’s son and a best high school friend – that Don had passed away from cancer. And so I made my way down to northern New Jersey on a hot humid day to attend his memorial service and to give the family my personal condolences. The service was light-hearted, as I am sure Don would have wanted it. Afterwards, there was a reception at “The Legion”, a place Don frequented to have a beer with old warriors.

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Don with a nice Wisconsin musky…

Now, some 6 years since Don forever hung up his spinning rod, I continue to fly fish and I think of Don. I target the smallmouth bass, my favorite gamefish – and Don’s favorite as well. But us anglers cannot always choose the fish that respond to our offerings. And on that recent foggy summer morning, a walleye took my fly, and Don came down to earth…

A part of my personal philosophy is that fishermen are born but never really die. Those that eventually slip the grips of gravity end up hanging around us, the water-bound, and watch the casts we make. We are reminded of these old fishermen in odd ways. When I am lucky enough on my home water, a nice smallmouth will launch skyward after taking my streamer and will invariably bring a smile to my face just as it did for Don. I pass an angler at the fishing access, enjoying a cold can of Budweiser after a hot day on the river, and I am again reminded of him, a tall lanky guy who sported a ball of a beer belly later in life, and who was rarely seen when land-borne without a Bud in hand. The wind whips up on the river and there he is again – Don just hated the wind, though as a spin fisherman, I never completely understood why – us fly fishers have a bit more of a valid objection. Pike remind me of him too – that peculiar smell of their slime has never left me ever since first landing one on a big Mepps spinner fished from Don’s boat. And of course there are stories from times I did not fish with him – the time Don used a large spring-device to keep a pike’s toothy yap open while removing a hook. After removing the hook, Don released the pike, forgetting that he needed to remove the spring!

Don was more than a fisherman who could tell stories. He could engage one so very well that once he caught you, it was rare you’d ever want to be released from his sense of humor and maybe too, his wisdom. For memories of fish and fishermen have always been magical in their ability to grow larger than life. The smallmouth Don caught and released will always be bigger than my own. This is a fisherman’s right, just as it is to pick and choose the stories that we leave behind. And, as with Don, a fisherman but always first a fisher of men, some of them scorn walleyes…

Memorial Day, Barnegat Bay, and Roger’s River

Oh, I know the sound the river makes,

By dawn, by night, and by day.

But can it stay me through tomorrows,

That may find me far away?

Roger’s River by Ralph D. Conroy

I woke up at 4:30 am on Memorial Day and lay there in bed, knowing I should get up and get going, but after a full weekend of yard work, while the spirit was willing the flesh was weak. ‘Think of what they did on this day’, I thought, and that thought finally ended the fight.

Unlike past years, I would not be fishing Ball Eddy on the West Branch of the Delaware that day. Instead, I had decided to visit my father, a Korean War veteran, and engage in some fly fishing on Barnegat Bay. In the Spring, Barnegat Bay is known for its good striped bass fishing as the bass are migrating northward along the East Coast at this time of year. It’s also a time when “racer” bluefish – referred to as racers because their starved bodies are so thin in comparison to their heads – invade the warmer waters of Barnegat Bay to feed up. Blues can provide outstanding topwater fishing on the flats of the bay.

Most fly anglers know the saying: you fish to the fish’s schedule, not yours. This is particularly true when fly fishing the salt. The tides can make or break the bite as can the wind and water temperature. Fortunately for me, all of these factors were aligned nicely this Memorial Day. I just had to hustle and get out to Barnegat Light before the tide hit slack high.

I drove out to the island from mainland New Jersey and crossed the great Barnegat Bay on the Long Beach Island causeway. To my left I could see the bay’s waters stretch seemingly endlessly and in the distance could just barely make out Barnegat Light. The wind was coming out of the northeast and rippled the bay. A grey overcast hung over the water and the island – a good thing for the light-shy bass. I was feeling hopeful.

It’s a 15 minute drive down Long Beach Island’s main boulevard to get to the northern end of the island but it always seems an eternity. On the way, you pass the once sleepy towns of Ship Bottom, Surf City, Harvey Cedars, and Loveladies, and finally enter Barnegat Light – established in 1692 – the town around the lighthouse and the literal end of the road. Then, turning left off the boulevard, you pass the fishing fleet, the party boats, and the charter boats, and make your way to a part of Barnegat Light referred to as High Bar Harbor.

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The commercial fishing fleet at Barnegat Light. In the distant background is part of High Bar Harbor and to the right stretching into the bay, lies “the dike.”

Arriving at the state park at the end of High Bar Harbor, I rigged up and set off through a cedar and bayberry canopy and emerged onto a great bay beach, referred to by locals as “the dike.”

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An aerial view of “the dike” seen as the long thin spit of land that stretches from High Bar Harbor to a sedge island. The dike is man-made of dredge spoils, built to create a harbor and divert tidal flows around the sedge island at its tip. Barnegat Inlet is to the far center right of the picture.

The northeast wind blew gently and immersed me in a bath of fresh salty air. Gulls and osprey soared and wheeled overhead. I had the entire beach to myself and as I walked in the sullen light of that morning, I wondered how it must have been to make a beach landing in war, the air ripped by bullets and filled with the cries of dying men.

It was a 15 minute walk to reach the end of the dike where the sod banks began. The place looked fishy and felt right. The current was flowing like a river along the banks and the water was a beautiful blue-green, reminding me that the emerald beaches of the Gulf have their own beauty but it is not the only beauty that water can have.

I found a point that protected a sandy cut behind it. It looked like a perfect place for bass and blues to set up and ambush or intercept prey.

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The sod banks…

My 8 weight was rigged with an intermediate sink tip line. I tied on a 1/0 chartreuse and blue clouser. Casting slightly up-current just like I would fishing a trout river with a streamer, I let the fly sink, counted down to 10, and began to strip the fly back on the swing. On just the third such cast, the fly stopped with a solid throbbing jolt. The rod tip danced and bowed in a deep arc and I cleared the line and got the fish on the reel. What followed was a good deep fight, filled with head shakes and lunging runs…

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A solid Barnegat Bay schoolie striper complete with chartreuse and blue mustache…

I was elated: this striper was a first on the fly and I caught it using the basics I had taught at a BC Flyfishers meeting held the week before.

I worked my way up the dike, casting and working the fly deep on the swing. The bass seemed to be holding in close, just off the current, no doubt picking up baitfish and crustaceans flushed loose from the banks by the tidal current. The bite lasted another hour during which I tallied three more nice schoolie bass…

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The current died when the tide reached high slack water and this lull would last a bit before the great bay had absorbed the ocean’s rush and started pushing it back seaward. I decided to pack it in, happy with my success. I had, after all, achieved one of my fly fishing goals; to catch a striped bass on the fly.

The walk and wade back was a long one. I was tired from the morning’s fishing and the soft sand underfoot made the hike all the more taxing but gave me time to once again reflect on the meaning of the day. Just before going to bed the night before, in an effort to calm my excitement over fishing the next day, I pulled out a Field & Stream anthology of short stories. The book seemed to naturally open to a story titled “Roger’s River”. The author, outdoor writer Ralph D. Conroy, was born in 1939, grew up in Massachusetts, and was an Army veteran. Mr. Conroy was a regular contributor to Guns & Ammo magazine, and was also published in Reader’s Digest and Field & Stream. In his short story, “Roger’s River”, the author writes of many themes familiar to stories with fly fishing as a backdrop, but it was the theme of connection and subsequent loss in war that resonated with me most that evening.

The story takes place during the Korean War. The author, recently graduated from high school, ventures afield in the Vermont countryside to set up camp by a river and fish alone. He is a week away from reporting for basic training in the Army and this is his last time to fish before heading off to war. He arrives at a small town and meets another young man who turns out to be a local fly fisherman familiar with a stream close by. The young man’s name is Roger. The two young men only briefly chat before Roger sets off to what the author later describes as “his river.” This is the only time the two men actually talk to one another in the story.

The author sets up camp that evening and hears the distant wail of a harmonica as he sits by his campfire. The next day he discovers Roger’s camp – neat and orderly – as he returns from fishing the river. There he finds the makings of a poem scribbled on some paper that hints that Roger too, will soon be off to war. After packing up, the author has the feeling that he is leaving more than the river behind.

Fast forward a year and the author is back home from his tour of duty in Korea. He returns to Roger’s river and finds Roger’s camp a mess – littered and in disarray. He leaves the camp on a mission to find out what may have happened to Roger. Courtesy of a local gas station attendant, he locates Roger’s house and meets his father, who reveals that his son had died in a helicopter crash in Korea a week before he was supposed to come home.

Over 54,246 men were killed during the Korean War with 7,704 still unaccounted for as of 2021. As I walked up the beach to the wood line of bayberry and cedar that marked the path out of the dike, I remembered the prose of Conroy’s story, recalling the meaning it carried, like the clarion call of taps in the evening. I thought of those lost in that war, like Roger, who may have carried a fly rod to cherished water, fished it one last time, and then left it behind for a higher calling. I stopped, took pause to view the bay, then turned and left it behind me, feeling fortunate for the morning’s fishing, but more so, for what they gave so that I could return to my own river and fish another day.

Lasts…

In memory of John Raymond Hatfield…

1928 – 2004

The salmon were in. From above the tail-out of Plumber’s Pool, I saw them; a big hen holding over a bed of gravel and a handsome buck guarding her as jack salmon took turns trying to dislodge the larger suitor. The water suspended them in its glassy flow, a gift from the river’s far reaching fingers. Just upstream, a towering falls thundered, casting its froth to the wind and cooling the air even more than it should in late autumn.

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From my perch on the bridge, I watched an angler emerge from the scrub of the river bank to fish the pool. He shuffled with elder steps, his stooped posture and bowed head that of a blue heron in stalking. His long mane, white as the falls-cast spray, whipped in waves as the wind buffeted him. He tried in vain to cast high enough into the pool to allow his streamer to sink well before the tail-out. His casting stroke was slow and deliberate – his long rod moved the way it should – but the wind overcame his frailty. Wise in years, he moved upstream and deeper to improve his position, but the unyielding current rebuffed him even as he leaned into it with his wading staff.

The angler’s struggle brought thoughts to mind of my late father-in-law, Ray. I could see his shadow looming through the translucent glass of a doctor’s office door. Framed in rich mahogany, the scene played out: an upright shadow approached, leaning down to him, speaking in hushed tones. At the age of 58, Ray listened to his doctor give the final prescription: he should retire and live out as many years as he could before his failing lungs took their last breath.

Silent to a fault and with a stiff upper lip, Ray never showed what likely ate away at him during those final years. He did the best he could with his sentence, retiring early, and building a house on the ninth hole, a place he duly deserved after 30 years of commuting from New Jersey to New York City while raising 6 kids, living, loving, and perhaps, wanting a bit more. Golf had somehow eluded the busyness of working life, so those first years of retirement were lived deliberately, ushered in with late morning risings, choice tee times, and capped with sunsets and vodka gimlets, both welcomed but measured. Eventually, however, the doctor’s words cast their pall and one day on the very course that hugged his retirement dream home, a final swing was made.

Now, as I approach that same age, I think of my father-in-law sitting before the doctor, the scene that we watch in our own way and that all of us must act in at some point in our lives. Golf, fly fishing – life itself – is a continuum of firsts punctuated by an inflection point, where lasts begin.

And so I watched the elderly angler finally give up the ghost. He looked up at me, as if cursing fate, his mouth gaping open and ringed white from exertion. He ambled into the riverside brush and I followed with my own retreat to a warm car. Fall waned that day and winter waited hauntingly in its wings. And I wondered as I walked away; would he remember his last cast, and would I, my own?

Auld Lang Syne

I might as well have been named after him for the countless misspellings of my last name. Most know this man – Scotland’s favorite son, the Ploughman poet, and The Bard of Ayrshire – not so much by his poems but by the Scottish folk song, Auld Lang Syne.

Kilt-wearing namesake?

Robert Burns is said to have collected some of the lyrics of this song from an old Scot and then composed other parts himself. For those who have tried to sing it whilst imbibing in champagne and bringing in the New Year, here’s the English translation:

Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind ?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and old lang syne ?CHORUS:For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we’ll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

And surely you’ll buy your pint cup !
and surely I’ll buy mine !
And we’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.CHORUS

We two have run about the slopes,
and picked the daisies fine;
But we’ve wandered many a weary foot,
since auld lang syne.CHORUS

We two have paddled in the stream,
from morning sun till dine;
But seas between us broad have roared
since auld lang syne.CHORUS

And there’s a hand my trusty friend!
And give us a hand o’ thine!
And we’ll take a right good-will draught,
for auld lang syne.CHORUS

This great work poses a rhetorical question as to whether it is right that old times be forgotten. 2020 was certainly not the year I nor anyone else thought it would be – COVID really put a cramp on fishing with others, limited travel outside of New York, time with loved ones, and caused much suffering and death. If any year should be forgotten, it should be 2020, and yet, I choose to not forget the year and instead remember those good days on the water. To wit:

  • Fishing a fantastic pre-spawn smallmouth bass bite. A low snowpack and less than average precipitation led to wadable flows in late April and early May…
  • Having a 23″ brown take a streamer intended for a smallmouth in the lower Tioughnioga. This was a shocker – never thought browns could survive this low in the Tioughnioga River.
  • Enjoying some spring largemouth bass, feeding up…
  • Experiencing the beauty of the West branch of the Delaware…
  • Hooking a personal record number of big carp, all caught on streamers, while fishing on the Tioughnioga River…
  • Landing a big fallfish on one evening late summer outing – a welcomed surprise. I love catching fallfish but I’ve not come across a lot of these guys lately and I’m not sure why. In years past they were a regular customer when fly fishing for smallmouth bass.

Life should be held close and kept dear and of all people who’ve roamed this good earth, I’m sure Robert Burns would agree. He died at the young age of 37 but he lived the years he was given fully and wrote prolifically, even while struggling to make a go at farming to support his family and his writing. The fact that he fathered nine children in his marriage and others outside of marriage certainly didn’t help his financial situation (to which my grandfather would have commented; “he should have danced all night”). At least he did have the sense to lease a farm at Ellisland, through which the River Nith flows. There’s no evidence the Scot poet ever fished the river, known now for a nice run of Atlantic Salmon, but it’s lovely waters didn’t completely escape his eye. Burns is reported to have written to a friend: “The banks of the Nith are as sweet poetic ground as any I ever saw”.

Robert Burns wrote over 130 songs and poems – a staggering 25% of his short life’s output – in the 3 years that he lived at Ellisland and among these works was Auld Lang Syne. He sold his lease at Ellisland in 1791, finding the farmland’s stony, infertile, poorly dressed and badly drained soil too challenging to make a profit, and died 5 years later of rheumatism.

Mmmmm – Scotch, Haggis, and Auld Lang Syne…

I’ll close this with another version of Auld Lang Syne, a favorite of mine, attributed to James Watson (1711). Here’s to past days upstream, and to better days downriver…

Should old Acquaintance be forgot,
and never thought upon;
The flames of Love extinguished,
and fully past and gone:
Is thy sweet Heart now grown so cold,
that loving Breast of thine;
That thou canst never once reflect
on Old long syne.CHORUS:On Old long syne my Jo,
in Old long syne,
That thou canst never once reflect,
on Old long syne.

My Heart is ravisht with delight,
when thee I think upon;
All Grief and Sorrow takes the flight,
and speedily is gone;
The bright resemblance of thy Face,
so fills this, Heart of mine;
That Force nor Fate can me displease,
for Old long syne.CHORUS

Since thoughts of thee doth banish grief,
when from thee I am gone;
will not thy presence yield relief,
to this sad Heart of mine:
Why doth thy presence me defeat,
with excellence divine?
Especially when I reflect
on Old long syneCHORUS

Hold life close and dear, my friends. Tight Lines, and Happy New Year…

Mankind is our business…

My kids roll their eyes when I break out “A Christmas Carol” this time of year. I do it because it’s a favorite story of mine and one in which Dickens does a superb job relaying what the season should be all about: “keeping” Christmas in our lives. And he ends the story with a message of hope and redemption – that if we have not kept Christmas, it is never too late.

I read once that Dickens was inspired to write the story after a bout of writer’s block. Mounting debts and financial pressures were bearing down on him, so he began to walk the streets of London at night, hoping to break his spell. Some of these walks took him through poor  areas of London where he began to witness the dark side of poverty, and worse yet, children forced to work in horrid conditions. These experiences led to the story, “A Christmas Carol”.

Perhaps the most important line in the story comes about as Scrooge is confronted with the ghost of his long-time business partner, Jacob Marley. The ghost bemoans his past as a mortal to which Scrooge replies, “But you were always a good man of business, Jacob”. The response is arguably the best line in the story:

“Business!” cried the Ghost, wringing its hands again. “Mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence were all my business. The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!”

“Mankind was my business…”

Sobering, Marleys’ words are. How often, in our own eagerness to seek the relaxation and pleasure of angling a-stream, have we not kept Christmas? How often have we helped the community-at-large in some way beyond our own wants? Have we ever taken a kid or adult – someone in need – to the beautiful places we fish? Have we been kind to fellow anglers, considerate to others, and patient? How have we used the wonder of fly fishing to better the world? Have we “kept” Christmas in our angling, and beyond that, in our lives, and if not in the past, can we commit to it in the future?

So, fellow flyfishers, I urge each of you to pick up “A Christmas Carol”. Draw up near the fireplace, book in hand, and drink of its wisdom. Then carry it with you this year – grace each river and stream you cross with it. Be truly, a better angler…

Merry Christmas and God Bless Us, Every One!
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