“Fish sense, applied in the field, is what the old Zen masters would call enlightenment: simply the ability to see what’s right there in front of you without having to sift through a lot of thoughts and theories and, yes, expensive fishing tackle.”
John Gierach
I owe the idea for this piece to Mike Hogue, whose recent Facebook post evoked a thought on the value of old fly rods…
Several years ago, I helped someone sell a fishing estate. For helping I was gifted a new rod that was never fished. Ironically, it’s a cousin of one of my favorite rods I’ve fished for years. My original is a St Croix Legend Elite, 8’6” 4 wt. I was gifted a 9’ 6 wt. St. Croix Legend Elite 2 piece. St. Croix reintroduced the same rod but updated. I set this one aside for some odd reason and the other day I cast it out in the yard. Ironically my wife has a completely identical rod. I forgot how cool this is. Not sure if it’s bad luck to fish a new old rod but what the heck, I’m going to give it a shot. I’ve got a few cool new flies to fish with the new old rod.
My first two fly rods were St. Croix’s – Pro Graphite models in a 7’6″ 4/5 and a 9′ 5/6 – both 2-piece rods of moderate to moderate-fast action, their blanks and wraps finished in dark blue. These rods are devoid of bling: even the reel seats are plain black aluminum, adorned with “Made in the USA” stickers that are now somewhat faded and worn. Both rods feature Fenwick cork grips, an old design that is very comfortable for casting, but one you rarely see anymore. The Pro was St. Croix’s entry level rod and the softest action in their line-up. It was described on the St Croix website back in the day as follows:
“St. Croix Pro Graphite fly rods are the definitive benchmark in fly rod value. Crafted from the same premium SCII graphite as our Imperial series rods, they deliver a smooth transition of power that delivers a level of feel and forgiveness that is unmatched by any other comparable fly rod.“
Indeed, one fly angler had this to say on a fly-fishing forum about the St Croix Pro Graphite:
Unbelievable rod, I would take this rod over my $500 Scott rod any day. I like that the rod has a little weight to it, its perfect for almost all situations, and you won’t find a better price. I wouldn’t waste your money on orvis clearwater or anything like that. This rod is worth its weight in gold, and even after abusing the hell out of it for years, it’s never broken or been damaged, and it still performs to a standard far surpassing any other rod. If you’re a beginner, or someone who’s been fishing for a while, I’d recommend this rod, it’s caught me more fish than I could count.
The Pro was discontinued and eventually replaced with the Premier.
The Fenwick grip – very comfortable for great rod control. Pic courtesy of Proof Fly Fishing.
I still fish my St. Croix’s, solid blue-collar rods unpretentiously dressed in overalls, getting the job done without much fuss. I’ve caught a lot of fish on both of these rods. The 4/5 has been used for early season stockie fishing and for the trout creeks of the Southern Tier.
A nice 2 year old stockie brown and my St Croix 4/5 weight
I also used this rod for bass in the pond behind our house on Grippen Hill. I used the 5/6 for bigger trout waters as well as the warmwater ponds, lakes, and rivers of the Southern Tier.
A Spring largemouth from Grippen Pond landed with my 5/6 weight St Croix
At the time I bought these rods, Dick’s Sporting Goods in Vestal had a fairly decent fly shop – I believe I paid $99 for each. I liked the multi-line rating of each of these rods and figured they could cover most of my fly-fishing needs. At the time of purchase, I was a late-to-the-game newbie, but in retrospect, this purchase was one of uncanny fly-fishing wisdom. The only other rod I could have added would be a 7/8 version, which I’m not sure they even offered. But if it were the case, for less than $300, I’d never need to buy a fly rod again, much to my wife’s delight. The trio would have covered 90% of my fly-fishing needs, save big game / heavy saltwater.
A large grass carp caught using my 5/6 weight St Croix. This fish sipped a chartreuse popper meant for largemouth bass.
While I own a bunch of high-end rods, mainly Scott’s which I particularly love, along with my own hand-built custom rods – over twenty in total – I still like to pull these old St Croix’s out on occasion, to take me back to my beginnings as a fly fisherman. They help to humble me to the years it took for me to get where I am as a dedicated fly angler. Sometimes one feels like they deserve high-end gear – they’ve earned the right to carry it as if their talents and skill are at such a level that these old rods are not up to task, not on par. But weather-worn, their epoxy coated wraps now somewhat yellowed and dull, showing stress cracks in places, and their cork grips mottled where the filler is gone, these old rods deserve a place in every fly fisherman’s quiver, if only to remind us of our beginnings. Back then I knew nothing about fly fishing, but that didn’t stop me from trying, and my St. Croix’s were with me every step of the way.
With a sag belly and the grin it was born with. And indeed they spare nobody. Two, six pounds each, over two foot long. High and dry in the willow-herb –
One jammed past its gills down the other’s gullet: The outside eye stared: as a vice locks – The same iron in his eye Though its film shrank in death.
From the poem, “Pike” by Ted Hughes
We were finally on the cusp of blissfully warm summer days, the severe winter of 2026 all but forgotten. The month of May was now behind us, though some cool nights still lingered in the wings. In this new land of mine I am much like a young boy hiking to unexplored fishing waters. There is nothing but delight in the savor of discovery.
While still in the throes of early spring I booked a fly-fishing trip with Jay Peck, a very fishy guide in my new home waters. Jay’s many YouTube fishing reports often offer up openings for future trips, and I learned that after spring steelhead, he guides for pike on the fly. I had not smelled their distinct slime odor, nor deftly admired their fanged grin in years, the last time being a rare encounter with a decent one that ambushed a crayfish fly in a side eddy on the Tioughnioga River. I very much longed for a date with a toothy critter.
Jay responded quickly to my request, suggesting I ping him in late May. He’d set something up after scouting and once water temps warmed. Sure enough, we set the trip for June 2nd. As the date approached, the weather gods were in a good mood and provided a perfect forecast – a cool morning, abundant sun, and warmth by mid-morning.
I had assumed all this time that this trip would be local. There are, after all, expansive weedy bays and ponds just minutes from my house, but no, we’d be fishing a place just north of Pulaski that Jay described as being “infested” with pike.
I met Jay at the Byrne Dairy right off 81 in Pulaski, then drove with him, drift boat in tow, to the Lakeview Wildlife Management Area (WMA). This WMA is part of the largest natural freshwater barrier beach system in New York State – a 3,461-acre expanse of diverse habitat including open fields, shrub lands, woodlands, wetlands, and a natural barrier beach. There are 5 ponds in the WMA, but we fished South Colwell Pond, farthest south.
South Colwell Pond has a maximum depth of 8 feet, with an average depth of 4.5 – 5 feet. It covers 102 acres and kisses over 2 miles of mostly marshy shoreline. At the time we fished it, the pond was clear and just starting to weed up. Jay indicated that come summer, it gets pretty weedy but can still be fished topwater. While I did see some small bass near the launch, Jay added that he rarely catches them – they are, besides the sunfish and yellow perch, on the pike’s dinner menu.
South Colwell Pond is accessed via a long gravel road that transitions from open pasture to deep deciduous woods, ending in a clearing overlooking the expanse of the pond. We pulled in and set up, Jay loading two 9 weight fly rods into their tubes in the boat, adding a gear bag, and finally adding two spinning outfits, “in case we need to go to the dark side”. Jay backed his drift boat down the ramp with precision and a few minutes later, was rowing us across the pond to a spot just inside a sandy break to Lake Ontario.
The boat launch on South Colwell pond.
It took a few casts for me to dial in my casting stroke using a fast action 9 weight and as Jay would say, throwing a chicken for a fly. He had me rigged with an intermediate sink tip, a 4-foot leader of equal sections of 40 and 30 lb. leader material and a foot of tie-able wire for a bite guard. On the business end was one of Jay’s articulated streamers in white with flash, a fly similar to Mike Schulz’s Swinging D or a Drunk and Disorderly. We would later switch up to the same fly in yellow perch colors. Both seemed to work equally well.
The pike, it turned out, were a no-show – Jay thought water temps may have still been a little cool for them – but pickerel were happy to play, and these were not the hammer-handle variety, but truly large. Steady strips produced with the pickerel inhaling the fly mid-retrieve – other times they followed right up to the boat and needed just a bit of teasing for an eat. Jay surmised that we were probably getting even more follows than we realized.
The bite was fairly steady all morning but began to fade by early afternoon, as did my casting arm. I hadn’t used a 9 weight since the fall, after all, and the casting was continuous. We called it a day before 2 pm.
On the drive home, I reflected on a great day of fly fishing. While I had wished the pike did show – Jay has caught some in South Colwell Pond that taped out over 40″ – I had never caught a pickerel on the fly. It’s always a good day with the long rod when a species is added to the “firsts” list.
This fishing was, dare I say, “simple”. The pickerel were virtually everywhere and eager to eat. They took on the first few strips, followed the fly and ate, and even hovered about the boat waiting for a tease that triggered their primordial instinct to kill. Even sloppy or errant casts would be just as likely to induce a take as perfect ones. Fly selection didn’t seem to matter – any streamer with movement would have worked – articulated streamers, clousers, deceivers, even big buggers – and color didn’t seem to make a difference.
There are plenty of times on the water when an angler must be on point, where tactics, location, and skill make or break the day. The pay-off can be huge but the cost is intense focus, constant attention to detail, and often times frustration with the ways of fish. As Jay would say, “I’ve never had any luck telling the fish what to eat”.
I think us anglers all need a day with pickerel – if only for a break from the hunt and a day on the water of pure enjoyment.
Grippen Pond sits a mere 50 yards off my back deck and is, at last, reborn. I thought about making that call last year, after hooking and losing a nice bass and following that with a 15″ rainbow trout (a first ever for me in the pond and most likely a holdover from a neighbor’s stocking), but for the rest of the year, the pond just didn’t fish like it used to, especially in summer and fall. My first saunter back to it on an early evening this year convinced me otherwise and left me grinning and looking forward to times like the good old days.
The first bass of 2018…
After moving my family into a bigger house in 1998, I did a recon of the pond on which we had frontage and deeded recreational access and found it teeming with small sunfish and frogs. Weedy and mucky, the pond looked old. Locals claimed it was once a place where kids swam, and dairy cows drank cool spring water…
Ponds, like us fishermen, grow old and eventually die. The life of any pond will pass through 3 phases: 1) Oligotrophic, 2) Mesotrophic, and finally, 3) Eutrophic. Broome County Soil & Water Conservation surveyed the pond years back and confirmed it was old and dying. The only way to rejuvenate it effectively, according to them, would be to drain it and excavate. Early on (we’re talking pre-1900), the pond was quite possibly Oligotrophic: deep and clear and having a low concentration of nutrients, such as nitrogen and phosphorus. Over time, keeping in mind it was on land that became a dairy farm, the pond transitioned to the Mesotrophic stage: having more nutrients and, therefore, more plant and algae growth. As a result of the plant and algae growth, the bottom of the pond began to fill in with organic material. The substrate that was once rock, sand, or gravel, now would have consisted of mud on top of the rocks. Gradually, Grippen Pond became Eutrophic as it is today – extremely well nourished with nitrogen and phosphorus, leading to an abundance of aquatic plant growth. The bottom of the pond is now filled with organic sediment and mud – I’ve waded in areas were I sank in up to my knees. In the heat of summer, vast mats of aquatic weeds and duckweed give the bass a shady hiding place, safe from the herons that hunt the pond’s shallows. The depth of the pond at its deepest point is over 10 feet but I am sure it continues to fill in as all of that aquatic vegetation dies each year. As the pond or lake fills in and weed growth accelerates, the total open water area will shrink. Eventually, Grippen Pond is destined to be a swamp or wetland without intervention.
In 1998 it was evident that Grippen Pond lacked a population of bass to control the sunfish population and I decided to attempt to balance out the situation by playing bucket biologist, stocking some bass from a coworker’s pond.
Scroll forward a few years and the bass were alive and growing…
Years back, a bright, beautifully marked, largemouth bass
Unbeknownst to me, however, my neighbor on the other side of the pond and owner of the pond, was doing his own stocking. Fathead minnows, crappie, largemouth bass, and rainbow trout were apparently planted almost every year. He had good intentions, but the rainbow trout certainly wouldn’t survive the warm water of the pond, especially through summer, though I now know at least one did. Quite possibly, the deep part of the pond has cold springs that allow a few to survive. I’ve never caught crappie, but I have caught some supersized sunfish that took bass-sized poppers and wooly buggers with mouths big enough to lip.
Big enough to take a bass popper…
The big male pumpkinseed sunfish in the picture above eventually met a far worse fate than being caught and released by yours truly. The winter of 2014 – 2015 was not kind to Grippen Pond as the Southern Tier of NY was hit with incredibly cold weather. On the way to work one morning I measured a low temperature of -27 degrees F! The arctic environment sealed the pond shut with a thick layer of ice that lasted well into April. And on top of the ice, the winter’s snow layered up into a very heavy coat.
These conditions can set up ponds, especially shallow ones, for “winter kills”. A winter kill occurs when the ice cover cuts off oxygenation of the water and then snow cover on the ice cuts out sunlight to aquatic plants, causing them to die. The dead plants, in turn, use even more oxygen as they decompose: a deadly downward spiral for all aquatic life.
And so that spring of 2015 was a rough one. I remember scanning the shoreline from my kayak, finding hundreds of sunfish, good numbers of bass, and a few very large grass carp, all dead. Spring turned to summer and the pond was unusually quiet. Gone were the sounds of bass crashing bait in the shallows in the evening. Gone too were the toilet bowl flush swirls at any popper tossed close to a weed edge.
A very large grass carp that took, of all things, a chartreuse bass popper! I caught this monster in May of 2014 – the spring before the winter kill. It towed me around the pond in my kayak for quite a while…
After a disappointing 2015, I once again patrolled the pond in the spring of 2016, hoping to see signs of a comeback. Paddling about in my kayak, the pond’s owner, a friendly, elderly neighbor, came out of his house to talk to me one evening. I told him the 2015 winter kill had eliminated the bass and large sunfish and that the pond was overrun by small sunfish and frogs. Tadpoles that spring overwhelmed the shallows.
My kayak ready for duty. The pond owner’s house is in the background. Grippen Pond is a good 1.5 acres in size in the shape of a distorted kidney bean.
My neighbor listened intently to my suggestion that we re-stock some bass and acted on it that year, adding a bunch of decent-size bass from another pond.
As a result of this re-establishment of the bass population, sunfish appear to be under control. And the tadpole population also seems to be thinning. I think I know just where most of those have been going…
“A bass is a far cry from the conventional target of the long rod. So when the conventional concepts of tackle, lures, and procedures fail to interest an unconventional quarry, go it his way”.
Tom Nixon, Largemouth Bass Fly Rodder
On my 2025 trip to our little place on Florida’s panhandle, I read William G. Tapply’s wonderful book of fly-fishing essays, “Every Day Was Special”, and came across a piece about an intriguing bass fly and its innovative creator, Tom Nixon. Just beyond me as I read and enjoyed a beer and cigar, lay Horseshoe Lake, a little sweet water jewel our Beachwalk townhouse is perched on.
The view from our place of Horseshoe Lake
In that water swim abundant baitfish, bluegills, and some truly impressive largemouth bass. While I had previously caught some nice largemouth bass in Horseshoe Lake, the more I read about Tom Nixon and his unique fly, the more I wanted to get my hands on it and give it a try. So, on my most recent visit, this past April, I did just that.
Nixon was a revolutionary in our sport, though, sadly, I doubt many fly fishers have ever heard of him. What I found researching the man, dare I say legend, is that he was born and schooled in Illinois, becoming an engineer, and eventually relocating to Lake Charles, Louisiana through his professional work for the Pittsburgh Plate Glass Company. While working there, Nixon would spend most of his free time in a johnboat, armed with a fly rod in pursuit of big bass and panfish along the Calcasieu River and its many tributaries. And like any good engineer, he was constantly devising new fly patterns that might improve his success on that river.
Nixon literally wrote the book on fly fishing for bass and panfish. His seminal work, “Fly Tying and Fly Fishing for Bass and Panfish,” was first published in 1968, with a total of 3 editions thereafter. I was able to purchase a used copy – it is no longer available new in print.
The book grew from a request of Nixon in the early 1960s to teach fly fishing and fly tying to a group of boy scouts. Nixon tried to document all the various aspects of the sport he could think of, noting that most everything at the time was dedicated to cold-water trout and its flies. Failure to find sources to recommend to others led him to putting his notes into book form.
Fly fishing purists will likely not be fans of Nixon. His creations make use of spinners and plastics and all of this long before such things as the spoon fly ever took form in a vise. But Nixon’s creativity did not bother some of our sport’s greatest names. Lefty Kreh and Dave Whitlock are proud to have associated with Nixon over the years and reportedly fished his flies. Nixon was even invited as a tyer to the very first International Federation of Fly Fishers Show.
It used to be that bassing with a fly rod was wholly devoted to the popper. If bass were not taking topwater, one didn’t fish the fly rod for them. Streamers, crayfish patterns and other subsurface flies were not used for bass. That was, until the creation of the Calcasieu Pig Boat.
Nixon had friends who were into bass tournaments and used all sorts of conventional gear baits. He didn’t like getting out fished by his friends. “I was having to put up with a lot of guff from some of my heave and crank acquaintances about fly rod bass” he told William Tapply during an interview. Nixon wanted to develop a fly that would be as effective as some of the things they used. That’s how the “Pig Boat” was born, and it did prove to be one of the most effective bass flies ever developed. “Pig Boat” was the term used for German submarines in WW2, which were deadly at their ship-sinking craft. His favorite bass haunts were on the Calcasieu River in Louisiana – hence “The Calcasieu Pig Boat.”
Nixon’s creation first hit the water in early 1951. At that time, the Hawaiian Wiggler was one of the best bass lures around, and so he designed the Pig Boat to imitate the conventional lure. This fly most resembles the bass angler’s jig. Over the years, it’s not only taken thousands of bass, but it’s been equally deadly at times on brown trout, walleye and other species it was never intended for.
The Hawaiian Wiggler
The Pig Boat’s overall length is two to three inches long. Traditionally, the rubber hackle skirt and the head on a Pig Boat are black with the body, composed of extra-large chenille palmered with saddle hackles in any color you want it to be. Use extra-large chenille for the body. Medium size round rubber works best for the Pig Boat’s skirt. Four bunches of legs are tied in on the near side, top side, far side, and bottom of the hook. The head is built up out of thread, coated, and traditionally has an eye applied to it. Here’s a great YouTube video of tying this great fly.
This is a big bulky fly, so it’s appropriate to use an 8 or 9 weight rod to throw this with either a “big fly” weight-forward floating line or sink-tip line depending on the type and depth of water being fished. This fly is best fished using a strip-pause-strip-pause retrieve but it pays to also vary the type of retrieve depending upon the mood of the fish. Even though the Pig Boat was originally designed to catch big bass, it is also an effective saltwater fly. It’s reportedly been used to take big redfish in the Gulf among other species.
Over 25 years ago, when a local bass club invited Tom Nixon to participate in their tournaments on the Toledo Bend Reservoir, he accepted the chance to stack his fly rod up against their spinning and baitcasting gear. Nixon entered 5 tournaments and got one first, one second, and two third place finishes, and was disqualified from the fifth when his alarm failed to wake him in time for the start. Most of his bass were caught on just two flies – a spinner and Pig Boat rig and a yellow cork body popping bug.
Nixon fished late into his life, well into his 80’s and when he wasn’t fishing, he’d be giving programs or demonstrating his patterns at shows throughout the mid-South.
Tom Nixon and one of his spinner flies.
Nixon designed and tied many other patterns that are less well known than the pig boat, but also effective on bass and panfish, such as the .56%er, a deadly pattern for panfish…
The .56%er – picture courtesy of the Panfish on the Fly blog.
And so, during my recent 2026 visit, I decided to give the Calcasieu Pig Boat a try on the largemouth bass of Horseshoe Lake and adjoining ponds of the Sandestin Resort. I had purchased a bunch of Pig Boats in white and black/green color combinations. These flies sported a “mister twister” tail off the size 1 hook, something Nixon would have approved of – he was known to hang a pork rind tail off a pig boat at times and found it worked well.
A Sportsman’s Warehouse version of the Calcasieu Pig Boat
True to what I read, the pig boat performed admirably for me, tempting bass with its mass of undulating rubber legs and bulky body with the flash of chenille. I worked it in the shallows and around structure on an 8-weight floating line and sight fished it to bass staging to spawn. While I had fished a big Wooly Bugger to catch bass on previous trips, the Pig Boat has replaced the bugger as my go-to bass assassin pattern. I landed several very nice bass, including a personal best that taped out to roughly 23″.
The size 1/0 hook on this pig boat resulted in many more hookups as compared to a size 4 or 2 wooly bugger as well.
A prime example of the quality bass of Horseshoe Lake
In the end, fishing the Pig Boat on Horseshoe Lake felt like shaking hands across time, 75 years to be exact. Nixon built his flies for the dark water of the Calcasieu, but their spirit travels well — from the Louisiana bayous to a quiet Florida lake where a bass with shoulders made my day. Patterns come and go, but the good ones carry a piece of their maker with them. After this trip, I’m convinced the Pig Boat is one of those rare flies that still speaks clearly, decades after its creator set it loose. It now has a place in my box…
“In the end, it’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the life in your years.”
Abraham Lincoln
The trip south from my first night’s stop in Columbus Ohio would entail a journey of over 500 miles through the cities of Cincinnati, Louisville, and Nashville, before a final overnight stop in Alabama. A deep front was sweeping eastward as I made my way south, bringing more heavy rains, high winds, thunder and lightning, and even tornado warning sirens south of Nashville. After my final overnight stop, I was up early, coffee and sausage egg McMuffin on the go, and on my way to Destin.
Destin welcomed me with warmth and sun, and after arriving at our place, I set about unloading, provisioning, setting up and settling in. Once that was done, I rigged up my 8-weight fly rod with a big wooly bugger on a floating line and scouted the Horseshoe Lake shoreline for largemouth bass.
Horseshoe Lake is one of several man-made freshwater ponds/lakes situated in the Sandestin resort in Miramar Beach, Florida. Horseshoe Lake is the biggest, the others like small golf course ponds but all home to abundant bluegill and largemouth bass, and both species can get quite large.
One can expect to catch largemouth, like this decent specimen, in the freshwater lakes and ponds of Sandestin.
Our place is just steps away from Horseshoe Lake – all the Beachwalk Villas border it, in some cases with a sloping bank, in others, like ours, with a bulkhead. In either case, one can sight fish to the largemouth as they prepare to spawn. Post-spawn is a different game as the spawn-weary females drop back into the depths and the smaller males guard the nest until the fry are about 2 weeks old. Then they too take refuge in the depths to recharge. The timing of this activity is dependent on water temperatures, which is dependent on the weather – colder springs delay it – warmer springs hasten it.
As is always the case, the vicissitudes of temperature and attendant gulf and bay water temperatures, wind, and rain, all make their mark, good or bad, on the fishing. Fortunately, as chronicled in this blog before, Destin offers diverse fishing options – freshwater lakes, saltwater bay and surf – so there are usually always options to keep one in the game.
From the start, the weather did not cooperate for fly fishing the surf. The winds prevailed from the south and east, making for a turbid and high surf and difficult sight fishing. For the first time since purchasing our property in 2016, I took my small fishing kayak along on this trip to better fish the bay. In all my previous outings, I waded the bay shore, which can still be effective but can be difficult depending on the bottom type. I had personally experienced a few cases where I sunk deep in marsh muck. The kayak removed that risk, while allowing me to explore a variety of bay habitat.
Neighbor Dale, a regular snowbird, would scoff at me and my fly rod. “Oh, forget that thing, get some bait, and fish the dock”, he’d say, claiming there were big redfish to be had. While I wasn’t going to go “bait-dunker”, I witnessed what he was talking about on the several occasions I ventured forth in my kayak. I saw no big redfish caught, but fishing within earshot of anglers on the dock indicated they were getting hook-ups only to be broken off when these big burly fish ran back under the dock.
On the bad surf days with winds prevailing from the south, I’d launch my kayak on the protected bay side at Baytowne Marina. There, from a sugary sandy beach adjacent to the marina, I’d paddle out to the waters off the marina and around the boat channel that leads out to the marine expanse known as Choctawhatchee Bay. The game here was all about fishing clousers and other weighted streamers on an intermediate line to spotted sea trout and redfish, as well as being ready for marauding jacks that could show up in an instant, brutish marauders busting bait.
I made three trips with my little kayak to the bay. I fished the edges of the channel off the marina the first time, picking up scores of “jacks” – juvenile spotted sea trout. Another kayak angler fished near me with spinning gear and did the same. I’ve always felt any time I can keep up with or even best the gear guys, I’m doing well. The fishing was great when you found these fish that tend to school when they are smaller, but they are also a moving target.
Bottlenose dolphins inhabit the gulf, the harbor, and Choctawhatchee Bay. They reach sizes of 6 to 13 feet and weigh between 300 and 650 pounds and consume as much as 4% to 6% of their body weight (12 to 40 lbs!) each day. And they love fish. On my first outing I spied a mother dolphin with her calf, hunting the water around Baytowne Marina. From a distance I had no issue with them, but when they got close, I suddenly felt intimidated by their size and power, especially considering I was in their element, at eye level, and in a 10′ kayak. In several cases I’d be fishing and catching, but as soon as they were around the fishing completely shut down, for obvious reasons.
My final trip in my kayak proved exceptional. On that fine day, I observed huge schools of baitfish close in to marina structure. I focused on casting clousers of different colors where I saw baitfish getting busted. I was using a full intermediate line on my 8 weight – I’d cast and allow the fly to sink, then strip back erratically, sometimes allowing the fly to pause on the retrieve. It wasn’t long before I was hooking up, and these were good sized spotted sea trout…
A spotted sea trout on the fly…
Spotted seatrout, also known as speckled trout or just “trout” in southern waters, are a great gamefish and good table fare. Their northern cousin is known as the weakfish. Though they have the name trout assigned to their order, they are actually a member of the drum family. They are typically found in bays and estuaries where they hunt crustaceans and baitfish.
While I did not hook any redfish, in two cases I saw two giant bull reds slowly pass just beneath my kayak. They, like the dolphins, made me feel downright diminutive in my little kayak, the Cape Breton fisherman’s prayer coming to mind – “Lord protect me – the sea is so large and my boat is so small…”
My brother-in-law, Jeff, was able to visit for a few days. He arrived one morning after having visited his daughter at college in Tampa. It wasn’t long after getting him settled that we were out the back door like young kids to fish for largemouth. Jeff is originally from Pennsylvania – Claysburg to be exact – and cut his fly-fishing teeth on the creeks and streams of the southcentral PA mountains. After high school, Jeff headed West to Southern California where his brother lived and worked. The rest of his formative fly-fishing years were spent plying the mountain streams of the Sierra with far-flung guided trips to Alaska and other fabled rivers like the Green, the Yellowstone, and the Bighorn. Bass are not in his blood.
As it was for me the first time I fished the lake, he was amazed at the size of some of the bass as they staged for spawning. The females were often twice the size of the males, the males doing all the work and waiting for the females to move up to them. They built nests close to shore, but favored sites near cover, such as tight to a bulkhead, around the pilings of the bridges, and under trees. In the early stages of the spawn, the males would aggressively chase streamers fished around the nest. Once on the nest, the males and females would continue to bite, but as the spawn progressed, the bite would slow. Even so, the stage of the spawn could be different across the lake, so it seemed there were always some willing players. As the spawn wound down with increasing water temps, the females left the child-rearing to the males and after roughly 2 weeks, both parents were gone, sulking in the depths to recharge, while their black needle-like fry held in loose schools around the nest, and then dispersed.
I fished one small pond adjacent to a golf course with Jeff. We cast big buggers to the deeper water as we saw no fish on beds. It was an intermittent bite, but we did hook up with some more nice bass. I believe these were post-spawn fish and back in an active feeding mode. It’s likely the smaller pond’s water temp was higher than Horseshoe Lake, and the spawn is all about water temperature.
A beautifully marked bugger bass… Golf cart fly fishing is fun!
Jeff and I also booked a guide for redfish by the name of Cleve Evans with Shallow Water Expeditions. Cleve met us a daybreak at a boat launch off St Andrew Bay in Panama City. It was a cool morning, and Jeff and I were a little underdressed for the high-speed cruise on Cleve’s flats boat. I shivered uncontrollably but suffered through it. The day would warm with the bright sun soon enough.
Cleve gave us excellent instruction on casting from the platform on the bow – Jeff and I would alternate all day long. Cleve would coach us in a low-key way, calling out fish we he poled us along expansive marsh and flats.
Guide Cleve Evans with a big redfish.
We started the morning with a promising sight – a big redfish was tailing right along a marsh bank, his back partially out of the water. Here and there baitfish would scatter as he worked his way along, seemingly ambivalent to our presence. Jeff was on point and the guide told him to cast. Jeff is an excellent caster, perhaps too excellent in this case as he bonked the big redfish on the head, sending him off to deeper water like a jetboat on nitrous oxide. Unfortunately, despite Cleve’s best efforts, this scene would repeat itself all day. We saw plenty of fish – I’d estimate up to 50 – and we had many shots, but the fish were extremely skittish and usually scooted with any cast that landed even remotely close to them. Cleve fished us hard and towards the end of the day Jeff and I had already resigned ourselves to a redfish beatdown. We were tired and bug-bitten by some type of tiny biting fly that was particularly fond of Jeff’s exposed ankles. Cleve expressed his own frustration with the day – “we had eight yesterday” – but he added that redfish on the panhandle can be that way.
Jeff departed the following day, and I enjoyed a few more days of fishing the lakes for bass…
and beautiful Choctawhatchee Bay for trout.
Soon enough it was my time to leave too. I took the same route home and arrived in the still cooler weather of Lake Ontario. Memories of warmth, white sandy beaches, dark green and gleaming silver fish now faded. But rather than being despondent leaving the great fishing of Destin, I had cause for happy days ahead – the smallmouth pre-spawn bite loomed in the offing.
The fishing was good; it was the catching that was bad.
A.K. Best
It was not a very auspicious start. The first day of the annual spring vacation in Destin was too windy and stormy for fishing the surf or bay, so an evening visit to the lake just steps off our deck was in order.
Just steps off the deck…
As the sun began to drop, I sight-fished the shoreline for largemouth bass and after some careful stalking took a personal best fish that jumped like a largemouth should and fought like they normally don’t (as in hard). As Kirk Klingensmith once said during an excellent presentation on fly fishing for bass, “for largemouth its all about the explosive take” (he relegated to smallmouth their rightful place as the harder fighter and no less a jumper). This largemouth bass must not have heard Kirk’s presentation.
A personal best Florida largemouth…
What made that catch even more ego-stroking was the crowd that gathered as I landed it. Adults staying in townhouses adjacent to where I did battle were on their decks for cocktail hour. Before long I had a group of them hooting and hollering and raining down praise. I felt righteous, indeed. After a quick picture, I released the fish to applause and headed back to my own place with a definite skip in my step.
Sometimes a little good luck is a bad thing, at least in the fishing world. I headed off the next day, eager to conquer the salt, full of optimistic visions from my last spring trip to Destin. Surely this year’s pompano run would afford me some great action, and unlike last year, I was eager to actually keep a few of these silver bullets of the surf. Pompano are, according to many in Florida, phenomenal table fare. Their flesh is light, fair, and firm to the point where they can be grilled with the skin on.
So off I went in the morning to the surf, high hopes and 8 weight in hand. I walked out across the dunes and there it was – disappointment immediately smacking me in the face. The typically clear emerald waters were dirty and rough. A few bait fishermen using sand fleas for bait – a favorite of pompano – had caught nothing. I walked the beach, cast for a little while into some deep sloughs between the beach and the first bar, and returned home with a big skunk on my back, hero to zero.
I fished the bay, also turbid and seemingly void of fish. A conversation with the local Orvis fly shop’s fishing manager confirmed that the bay was off due to the rain and that I’d be best off to fish the surf. So with renewed hope, I returned to the surf again. The water was colder than last year and previous high winds from the south kept the surf on the rougher side, but clarity was improving and the wave heights were dropping with each passing day. I visited the beach a total of 4 times, and though each subsequent trip saw better conditions, my casts went unanswered. A conversation with a local fisherman confirmed that unusually cold weather had kept ocean temperatures in the low 60’s, whereas normally they’d be approaching 70. This would push back the fishing to later weeks in April or even early May.
Another frontal storm hit Destin on our second and last weekend there. High winds, rain, and cool weather prevailed. On our last day, Monday, the skies cleared bright blue, the sun warmed the air, and the winds abated. The beach had rip-tide warnings posted and the surf was still high, so I returned to fish the lake. We had a late afternoon flight that gave me enough time to get out one last time.
The bass were still around, though in most cases the spawning beds were empty. In some cases fingerlings could be seen in tight schools flitting about the empty beds. I sight cast to fish I saw and enjoyed the challenge of making precision casts. The smaller males guarded a few nests while the larger females hung back in the shadows of the adjacent depths. Both were cautious and spooky and not at all aggressive as they might be early in the spawn. But I did manage to get a few eats, missed a few, and landed a couple more.
One of a few to wrap up our spring trip to Destin…
One never knows what may be in store when travelling to distant places, fly rod in hand. Weather can change and conditions can deteriorate, or conditions can be great and the fish just don’t show up. The great days, the ones that make a fly fisher thank his lucky stars or kiss his good luck charm can both bless and haunt. In the end it is really all a matter of doing thorough preparation and research, damping expectations, and arming one self with confidence and a bit of optimism. Once “in country”, one must try to recon conditions, use weather forecasts and river gauging, and visit local fly shops and talk to fishermen, including the spin guys, the bait guys, and even the commercial guys. All of these sources can help one steer towards a successful trip. Obviously, a fishing destination that is characterized by one “pattern”, as in one river system or one type of fish, carries more risk of the skunk in comparison to areas where there are multiple opportunities, such as in Destin, and our own Southern Tier. I never knew it, but Destin has turned out to be a terrific fishing destination. Most times I’ll always aim first for the salt, but now more than ever, I know ole bucketmouth is always there to save the day.
The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected.
Robert Frost
We all go through at least a few life-changing moments during our winks on this good earth. For me there have been a dozen or so, most of them deeply philosophical, a few from the school of hard knocks, but two, detailed herewith, that are related to physical fitness. I can see the eyes rolling already; “yeah, yeah, yeah, another message about how important exercise is for good health and what the heck does that have to do with fly fishing anyhow”. Well, bear with me…
Step back in time some 36 years: the location is Camp Pendleton – a United States Marine Corps base in very arid southern California that stretches over 125,000 acres of coastal land made up of salt marsh, floodplain, oak woodlands, coastal dunes and bluffs, coastal sage scrub, and chaparral – basically a very inviting environment for long leisurely walks…
A leisurely walk, Marine Corps style…
While the weather was quite bright and warm, the greeting committee we NROTC midshipmen met was, well, less than sunny. And the accommodations – Quonset huts right out of Gomer Pyle, USMC, complete with a resident mascot bulldog that had the undershot jaw only an orthodontist could love and the attitude toward us newbies of a junkyard dog. What stands out as most memorable about Camp Pendleton were the leaders we served with for that week – a Latino gunny sergeant whose name escapes me now but who talked about chevies (with a hard “ch”) and cleaning the rifle chamber (with a soft “ch”) – and a most charismatic “bully pulpit” major by the last name of Hatch who unabashedly took us “young guns” to task for being pathetically out of shape and then proceeded to lead us on runs through the hilly terrain complete with oh-so-colorful jodies. I recall one “speaking to” after a run through the hills when we were severely dressed down for not being able to keep up with a man twice our age. So taken was I by the esprit de corps of the place that I remember leaving Pendleton wanting to become a marine officer. A childhood asthma diagnosis ultimately prevented me from walking down that path. While that might not have set well with the mighty major, I think he would be pleased that I have tried to remain fit all the years since…
Fast forward to the summer of 2008: I’m fishing the Chenango River, late one summer afternoon. I round a bend in the river and see another fly fisherman – hunched a little, butt-deep in the river – he false-casts his fly two or three times with nice loops in an easy, almost effortless motion. It’s a rare sight: he is only the second fly fisherman I’d seen on the river in the course of 10 years. I slowly fish my way down to him.
I wade with the river, working my streamer down and across, then pull out just upstream of him. He has a gentle manner about him, and is so soft spoken that I have to draw close and listen cup-eared just to understand his words above the river’s soft murmur. He’s an older man, early to mid 70’s. His face is drawn, his eyes worried…
We talk fly fishing for a bit; he prefers fishing dry flies but laments the days of chasing trout in the faster rivers of the Catskills are largely over. As he says this, he glances down at the long wooden wading staff attached to his waist and wagging atop the water below him.
I wish him luck and wade downriver as evening sets in. A few times I turn upriver and observe him in the same spot, but eventually, imperceptibly, he removes himself from the river. As I finish fishing and hike back to the car, I double back on my promise to keep physically fit but this time the promise is targeted on fighting off aging so that I may actively fish well into my eighties, and even beyond, God-willing.
Sometime after my riverside re-awakening, I came across a book that would be that second life-changing moment related to physical fitness. The book was titled, “Younger Next Year” co-authored by Chris Crowley, a 70-something ball of energy, and Henry “Harry” Lodge, M.D., his internal medicine doctor. The two trade chapters: Chris providing the application and real-world experience side of the book and Harry, the medical facts and reason behind the advice. The book’s premise: if you can fight the biological clock by sticking to some basic rules, you’ll live like you’re 50 well into your 80’s and beyond. I read the book and was compelled to read it again with highlighter in hand.
Harry’s Rules are so simple that one might question buying such a book. But it’s what’s behind the rules that fascinated me most. The medical detail behind each rule convinced me of the book’s worth and reminded me of a common criticism I have of the medical profession: that many doctors preach rules, order tests, but rarely take the time to explain “why”…
So, here are Harry’s Rules:
1. Exercise six days a week for the rest of your life. 2. Do serious aerobic exercise four days a week for the rest of your life 3. Do serious strength training, with weights, two days a week for the rest of your life. 4. Spend less than you make. 5. Quit eating crap. 6. Care. 7. Connect and commit.
Notice that the rules go beyond being just a gym rat, another thing I loved about the book. And even the importance of non-physical rules, such as “Connect and Commit” are backed by sound medical rationale.
The book is a delightful read, especially for us older guys. It’s written by a guy who can relate to age and by a doctor who sees daily, the results that lifestyle can have on one’s aging. Harry and Chris use the mantra, “grow or decay” throughout the book and it is a good one to remember as is their chart that depicts normal aging and what “old age” can be.
Here, according to the authors, is how we typically age…
And here is the aging process if we live by Harry’s Rules…
According to Harry, over 70% of premature death and aging is lifestyle related and that through simple lifestyle changes, captured in Harry’s Rules, over half of all disease in men and women over 50 could be eliminated.
The choice is ours. We can look at aging and all the associated aches and pains and limitations as normal, or we can choose to delay the onset of the slippery slope, and continue to live well into our 80’s.
And so I’ll begin 2016 with another read of Younger Next Year. I’ll think of all the fishing left to do in my life and remember the old guy on the Chenango. I’ll re-commit to fighting the relentless tide of old age, with Harry’s Rules in hand, so that I can still venture out and wet a line well into my 80’s. And with a little luck, maybe I’ll hear the young bucks over the roar of the fast water say, “would you look at that old guy?”
The following blog post was originally published on 12/5/2014, as an update on our adoption of Maddie. Her official “gotcha” day was February 23, 2013. We believe she was born in September 2013.
Those who follow this blog know a little about Maddie. I posted a piece on our adoption of her, or perhaps I should say her adoption of my family. She was a “return”. Previous owners had adopted her as a young puppy, but we believe may have found her too much to handle. So, she was lovingly taken back by her foster shelter, Every Dog’s Dream, in Greene, NY, and after we saw her photo, it was, as they say, love at first sight…
Most people know that Labs love the water. But Hound / Lab mixes like Maddie – well, I wasn’t so sure. Maddie is a Treeing Walker Coonhound and Labrador Retriever cross. She has the ears of a Lab, the head of a coonhound, the coat of a Lab and the tail and deeper chest of a coonhound.
The Treeing Walker Coonhound…
She’ll bay like a coonhound, even stand up to a tree if she’s chased a squirrel, yet she also has a deep bark that warns with authority. She’s goofy, playful, wicked fast, retrieves, and loves her toys…
A dog’s gotta have toys…
Maddie first met water not long after we adopted her in February of 2013. And beautiful Jones Park in Vestal was the site of our first forays in field and stream. Maddie loved the snow and the woods, but ice and water took some getting used to. The first time I crossed the brook there, she paced back and forth on the other side, whining aloud before finally being coaxed across the frozen surface of the brook. From there on though, she started liking water, and these days that little brook is a favorite of hers.
Beautiful Jones Park – Maddie’s intro to the wonderful world of woods and water…
But that was generally shallow wading with the exception of a few plunge pools. It took most of the following summer before the Susquehanna River dropped low enough for easy wading and the perfect opportunity to introduce Maddie to real swimming and maybe even some river fishing. My first trial would be a “no pressure” jaunt to an area above the Campville fishing access where there was a lot of water with a gradual transition and areas shielded from river current. We took a ride there one Sunday summer afternoon. While I had my fly rod, the goal was to wet wade and fish casually, inviting Maddie to join the water and “fish” with me.
It’s never an issue getting Maddie to take a ride in the car. Open any door and she’s eager to climb in and take up position in the back seat. She’ll then plant both front feet on the center console and look forward, or roam across the back bench seat, poking her head out either open window, ears flapping in the wind. It’s a sight to see in a little Subaru Outback and reminds me that one day I really do need to get a pick-up truck…
Cruising and scoping out the countryside, Maddie style…
So after we arrived at the large DEC access, I took a few minutes to rig up, and then set off up-river, through the woods. Maddie was all over the place in her usual land rover style; sniffing, marking, chasing chipmunks and squirrels – all good doggie stuff. We walked out to a large rocky bar on the river and there we did a little wading as I cast my line. Maddie never strays afar – possibly an attachment issue from her past. She was right by me the whole time. I waded into the river until she almost moon-walked the bottom – and that was good enough for our first adventure. I didn’t want to push it.
An intro – Maddie wades the Susquehanna shallows…
The following week we repeated the same exercise. Maddie was a lot friskier, chasing plovers, wading in where I fished while watching the fly line where it entered the water. We waded deeper this time but I wasn’t having much luck with the bass. Eventually we headed to a feeder creek with a very deep hole. I spied a bass in the hole and cast my olive soft hackle bugger across the pool. It was like ringing a dinner bell as 4 bass quickly emerged from the green depths. These fish had most likely been trapped in this hole all summer – the feeder creek tailed out to a slight trickle before entering the river – and as the saying goes, beggars can’t be choosers in a spot like that. The biggest of the bass struck my fly aggressively, not wanting to let such a meal get by, and a good tussle began. The fish darted towards the security of a downfall and root ball. I put the brakes on while hollering for Maddie. I lipped the bass, removed the hook, gave Maddie a chance to say hello, and then released the bass. Maddie literally dove right into the hole in pursuit and soon experienced water without bottom. She came dog-paddling back, no worse for wear, and a certified swimmer!
Surveying the faster water and making Dad a little nervous from afar…
I was thrilled, but never doubted she could do it. So we returned to the river the following week with a plan to explore a little more. I wondered, would she travel down to the honey hole – the one where the bass could be big – the one I loved to fish?
We got to the access and this time took a wooded path downriver. The path paralleled the river for a bit and then veered off along a river braid. As we hiked, Maddie would dash down to the river braid and then charge back up to find me, flying up 6 foot banks like they were nothing. Soon we came out where the river braid re-entered the river at a beautiful bay that I love to fish…
This is sweet water for fly fishing and fishing this spot gave Maddie the opportunity to explore the river-side and take a swim.
Loving the river…
Soon after arriving, I cast and swung my olive soft hackle bugger through a chute of water from the river braid and that proved to be a little too much for one nice bass. The fish took the fly solidly and went airborne with the hook-set. Maddie rushed in deep where the bass zigged and zagged, trying to intercept it. At one point it darted between her legs!
A nice smallmouth landed with aid of a water dog – note the paw in the upper left…
Soon enough I had the bass lipped, then removed the fly and put it down for a picture – Maddie’s paw included. Maddie began pawing the bass as I put my camera away and that was enough to send it off in a big swag of its tail.
Soon after hook removal, an errant “pat on the back” sent this bass fleeing…
But as the saying goes, all good things must end. So it was for our river sojourns. Not long after enjoying these visits to the Susquehanna, the rains came, the river rose, and then the cold swept in. Summer faded to fall and then to “see you next year”. No matter, it was great to have a fishing buddy on the river with me…
Relaxing on the deck with a glass of wine after a good day on the river…
And borrowing a prophecy picture from my original post on Maddie, I’d say she’s turned out to be quite a friend for a fly fisher…
The following blog post was originally published soon after my family adopted our wonderful dog, Maddie. Her official “gotcha” day was February 23, 2013. We believe she was born in September, 2013.
If there are no dogs in Heaven, then when I die I want to go where they went.
Will Rogers
Will Rogers said it best: dogs aregood. They live their short lives on this earth looking up to whomever walks into their lives and this goes back to early man who was looking for a guardian, hunting companion, and beast of burden.
Dogs have come a long way, all in service to man…
Dogs don’t judge; they are the very essence of unconditional love. Come home from after a bad day, depressed, tired, even angry, and though they’ve been home all alone, they come to you, tail wagging, as if Jesus Christ had just come back to earth.
Long are the tales of a dog’s absolute devotion and loyalty. Hidesamuro Ueno brought his dog, an Akita named Hachiko, to Tokyo in 1924 and every day when he left for his teaching job, Hachiko would stand by the door and watch him go. The Akita would then arrive at the local train station at 4 p.m. to meet his owner when he returned from work. Ueno later died of a stroke at work, but Hachiko continued to return to the train station every single day for the next 10 years until his death in 1935. A bronze statue stands at Shibuya Station in honor of Hachiko.
Hachiko: loyal to the end…
Then there’s Hawkeye, the Labrador retriever, that showed dogs too suffer from heartbreak. During Navy SEAL John Tumilson’s funeral, Hawkeye was seen ambling up to his owner’s coffin and then dropping to the ground with a heaving sigh.
Hawkeye grieves for his fallen owner. No greater love…
Indeed, I remember my grandmother once saying she never trusted any person who didn’t like dogs…
Up until very recently, I’d been dog-less for too long. I grew up with dogs, after all, starting with Cocker Spaniels, thanks to my grandparents who bred and showed them. Blue Bay was their kennel – home to many champions of conformation and obedience. Years later my wife and I owned Basenjis, a unique hound breed out of Africa, known to many as the ‘barkless dog’. We showed Kephas (our male) and Yodie (our female), and after finishing them as AKC Champions, they had a litter of 5 puppies. The litter pick, Blue Bay’s Violet Memory, was named in honor of my grandmother and was my way of thanking her for bringing dogs into my life. ‘Violet’ produced many champions. One of her descendents was the first black and white Basenji to win the breed at Westminster.
Kephas and Yodie passed on, as all dogs do, and we took a break from dogs. It was nice at first not having to walk a dog in the pouring rain or frigid cold, shouting under one’s breath every expletive known to man in front of ‘just go…!’, and yes, the house seemed a lot cleaner, dirty laundry left undisturbed, cherry cheesecakes not yanked off tables, etc., etc., but after a few years without panting and yodeling and all those dog antics – comic and touching – well, something was missing. My wife stood fast for a while, claiming she wanted to enjoy the house ‘chew-free’, until out of the blue, she noticed this picture in the news…
Those eyes…
The rest, as they say, is history. A week after noticing this Lab / Hound mix, we all went to see her. The bond was immediate and magical. It wasn’t another week before she was brought to us, courtesy of Every Dog’s Dream, a pet shelter in Greene, NY. Maddie wagged her way into our lives and where my wife saw a good walking companion, I immediately dreamed of a fly-fishing friend.
Maddy…
It turns out that Maddy was one of a litter of 4 puppies born somewhere in South Carolina. The litter had been left to a high-kill shelter, where dogs are put down if not adopted in 90 days. Fortunately, Maddie and her littermates were sent north. Audrey at Every Dog’s Dream referred to Maddie as an adorable, big-hearted girl who had good manners and liked being close to her humans. Our adoption proved she was more than right.
While pure-bred dogs have their place in life and certainly serve a purpose, the sheer number of homeless dogs continues to sky-rocket. Many of these dogs are real gems, such as we have found in Maddie, and all they’re looking for is a chance to warm a heart.
My plans for Maddie include lots of love and play, obedience training, and ultimately, a seat beside me on the way to flowing waters.
I know the Lab part of her breeding will win her over to water and I’ll promise her this…
“Oh the places you’ll go! There is fun to be done! There are points to be scored. There are games to be won. And the magical things you can do with that ball will make you the winning-est winner of all.” ― Dr. Seuss, Oh, the Places You’ll Go!
Michel de Montaigne, French philosopher, on staying true to one’s craft.
By all accounts, it had been a great year of fishing. My logbook listed just shy of 50 trips the previous year, excluding many half hour jaunts on my backyard pond to unwind after work. So, during my early spring gear tune-up and overhaul, it didn’t surprise me that my boots were in pretty sad shape.
I contemplated, dare I say, putting them out to pasture. After all, I’d owned them since I started fly fishing some 10 years earlier. I bought them mainly for bass fishing in the rivers – a relatively inexpensive but classic design – and Hodgeman’s no less – still made in America back then. They’d served their master well, and the mantra of this throw-away society hummed away in my head as I looked them over. Those glossy catalogs of the big brand fly fishing purveyors sell a compelling story – faster, lighter, better, tougher…
Oh, the places they took me…
The fly rod may be the heart and soul of a fly fisherman, but its his boots – the workhorse – that get him where he needs to be. They take the most abuse – the lion’s share of wear and tear of all a fly fisher carries. They are rarely in the picture of the beaming fisherman holding up the bounty of the day’s trip. And at the end of the day the weary fisherman unceremoniously sheds them, and stows them out of the light, beneath his waders, the Rodney Dangerfield’s of the angler’s gear – not getting a whole lot of respect. But like the weathered hands of a farmer, a well-used pair of boots has a story. To anyone who sees them, they speak experience astream. And they get better with age – fit better and somehow feel better. So, for these reasons, and the outright economic prudishness these times demand, I reconsidered the death sentence I was about to hand down…
There’s an old shoe repair store on the mostly bypassed main street of my town. The stores that surround it are largely what you’d call mom and pop businesses. Some storefronts are shuttered looking for new owners, the victims of the big box retailers that now line the parkway to the east. This little place sits among them – a classic sign marking its existence. It is busier than one may think.
You won’t find Gucci here, but he could repair them…
So, I went there one day on lunch break, boots in one hand, new Hodgeman’s felts in the other. Inside, the place breathed leather, shoe polish, and glue. Behind the counter was a doorway, a window into the lonely world of the cobbler. In the back of the shop was a long workbench, shoe anvils, all types of tools – awls, picks, and mallets – and racks of laces, shoemakers stitching, and leather. To the left of the counter were the fruits of true craftsmanship – neatly set in racks, tags hanging with names of owners. Every shoe, boot, belt, and handbag was polished. I began to feel good.
Inside that door waits a true cobbler…
The cobbler soon emerged from the back, clad in a heavy leather apron, workshirt, and brimmed hat. His whole appearance, including the neatly trimmed beard covering his jaw, seemed Amish, though I couldn’t be sure, and his hands testified to his work ethic – rough, calloused, and black with polish. His demeanor was pleasant. He studied my boots, turning them in his big hands – pulling the tongue back, examining the sides.
That my boots needed to be re-soled was apparent. The felt was worn thin and, in some places, de-laminated from the boot bottoms. But it’s what I didn’t tell him that he seemed to focus on. “I can re-glue the inside sole”, he said. He continued examining my boots, noting how the stitching on the outer sides was frayed and, in some cases, parted. “I’ll re-stitch these here”, he added. We settled the particulars – I could pick them up in a week. He marked a tag with my name and phone number and set them in a rack of accumulating work. He asked where I fished. The Susquehanna he was not too familiar with – he had canoed a few local lakes, but not the rivers of the Southern Tier. So, for the next half hour I told him about the fishing – the big smallmouth bass, walleyes, channel cats, carp, and musky that could be caught, and then about the wildlife that could be seen – mergansers that flew like sea-skimming missiles up the river and the osprey that dove straight into the river like a rock dropped from the clouds and the eagles that cast big shadows where they flew, and the great blue herons that at a distance in the early morning mist looked like hunched old fisherman working a pool. All these things I had seen because of my boots.
A week later I returned – a sunny spring day full of promise. I picked up my boots, newly clad with bright white felts, neater in appearance, restitched, all put together, and ready for work. The fee was so nominal I can’t recall it now, but for the memories they’d bring me, I should have paid a hell of a lot more.
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