|
|
By Anthony Naples, on October 21st, 2011
A little while ago I headed to a small stream in my little corner of the world (Southwestern Pennsylvania). This brook is a vassal stream of the mighty Youghiogheny River. The Youghiogheny or Yough (pronounced Yock) begins in West Virgina then flows north through western Maryland and continues northwesterly to join the Monongahela River southwest of Pittsburgh. It is generally believed that the Yough got its name from a native American term meaning “A Stream which flows in a contrary direction”. I think that’s a great name for a river – and I can relate to it, as I often feel like I’m traveling in a contrary direction compared to those around me.
So I parked in the lot, grabbed my stuff, 11-ft Tenkara USA Iwana, small fishing waist pack, larger pack for lunch and coffee thermos, and headed off down the trail full of expectations. The air was filled with the scent of pine and fallen leaves, so different than the suburbs. Often I exit my house to be confronted by a smell like burning brakes. I think this is from the steel plant over the hill – but I can’t be positive. Smells are so integral to our experience and so evocative and yet so often overlooked when we consider our experiences. When I think of the time that I lived in Maine I think of two smells – the sweet, astringent aroma of balsam and the slightly corrupted smell of ocean aerosols and lowtides. Other smells evoke other times and places.
Eventually I could hear the stream off to my right and down in a small valley. I could hear it but it was totally obscured by hopelessly, monstrously tangled rhododendron – the kind of rhododendron thicket that has you crawling on your hands and knees, praying that the snakes and bears are indeed more scared of you than you are of them. It was going to be tough fishing. The first bridge crossing that I came to revealed two anglers wading midstream – well that’s one way to tackle the brush I guess – but I hate to wade these types of streams at any time and especially in the fall, you know spawning trout and all. I don’t want to sound too judgemental and high-minded on this point though as some may question whether I should have been fishing at all at this time of the year – well that is a fair question, and frankly I have mixed feelings. I don’t do it so very often and I figure my impact is pretty small in the grand scheme – but nonetheless…at least I was not trampling all through the stream (maybe just a rationalization on my part). So with this section of the stream accounted for I moved on upstream to give the others some room.
Finally I found a few openings that I could navigate a bit easier. Now came the challenge – casting an 11-ft rod in tight brush. Easier said than done. Approaching the stream close enough to cast was a clumsy, crawling, scrambling over things, affair. Finally getting to the stream side I had no confidence that I didn’t spook every fish within 50 feet. So I would sort of weave the rod out over the stream and using a bow-and-arrow cast send the fly to the water (hopefully). Success was not forthcoming. I’m pretty sure that snagging the low-hanging branches and the subsequent shaking to free the fly was not helping in the stealth department. As expected this was tough going but fun anyway.
A little further on I finally found a spot where the stream spilled into a “large” pool and the canopy opened enough to allow a short-stroked side-arm cast of sorts. Still not easy but better. Crawling up to the stream and casting I finally found success on a size 14 Parachute Adams – a beautiful resplendent male brookie in full fall array. That’s what it’s all about. Certainly not the largest trout I’ve caught – but ranking right up there on the satisfaction scale.
The celebration didn’t last long. Somewhere in the landing of the fish I managed to snap the second segment of the tenkara rod. Kneeling down I had laid the rod across my thighs and, I think, my elbow came down on the rod to break it. Total user error – I want to make clear – not equipment failure. So that was the little bit of fishing that I was allowed that day, oh well it was a nice spot to sit for lunch anyway. As a footnote Tenkara USA has an easy system for getting the rod repaired. You can order the replacement parts online (for a very small fee), and so within a few days I was back in business for a lot less $$ and time than many other rod warranty deals, which usually require you to send the rod back.
By Anthony Naples, on May 23rd, 2011
.
Brook Trout and the Writing Life
The Intermingling of Fishing and Writing in a Novelist’s Life
By Craig Nova
Foreword by Ann Beattie
Eno Publishers 1999, 2011
Originally published in 1999 this version of Brook Trout and the Writing Life The intermingling of fishing and writing in a novelist’s life is newly expanded, though it is still a fairly slim volume at 145 pages. Brook Trout is writer and fly fisher Craig Nova’s memoir and to be absolutely truthful I had some trepidation about this book based on the title. Fly fishing writers can sometimes be guilty of imbuing the act of fly fishing with too much meaning, meaning that really doesn’t exist. Every part of the fishing act becomes a metaphor. This kind of writing can work, but often it becomes too heavy handed and forced for my taste. Mr. Nova avoids that trap with ease and grace. In Nova’s own words from the preface:
Of course, this book was never really about fishing. I meant it to be about people I cared for and about the passage of time.
And so it is. The act of fly fishing and it’s quarry the trout are a sort of mnemonic device that allow Nova to reach back through time and locate the memories that he wants to share. Fly fishing is not shoe horned and bullied into meanings. Instead the fly fishing stories in the book act more like the lepidopterist’s pins, piercing and holding a life-long collection of otherwise fleeting memories. For instance the story of his first brook trout is used as a backdrop for the story of how he met his future wife. The memory of his early romance is intermingled beautifully and naturally with the fishing. While reading I was often left with the feeling that I discovered something hidden and maybe even natural, native and organic. But I’m sure it is all very carefully crafted writing, extremely subtle and rewarding, such as in this passage:
One Saturday morning I got up early and went out with the fly rod. It was foggy when I got to the wood road, and when I came to the seep, the mist in the woods was filled with slanting rays of light as you might see in a dusty room, the lines defined by the long streaks of shadows made by the spruce and hemlock that grew on the steep sides of the hill. I followed the rill. In the mist, which was a little cool, and in that light, which came in as through a cathedral window, I thought of the warmth of the space under the blanket where Christina was sleeping.
In those days, I really didn’t know what I was doing in the fishing department, but at least I had some notion of the theoretical aspects of catching fish on a fly.
I enjoyed this book quite a bit. Craig Nova’s writing is peaceful and graceful, never heavy-handed. It is like a peaceful day alone on the the stream, winding along casting, picking up a fish here and there. Just as fly fishing is for him, the author has created a book that is a respite, a place to be quietly lost for a while. This book is first a personal memoir and second a book about fly fishing. But there is plenty for the fly fisherman to enjoy in its pages.
By Anthony Naples, on October 5th, 2009
 I am 38 years old. Which by my reckoning puts me in life’s Autumn years. How do I figure that? Let’s assume I live to be 80, that means I’m about half-way through the seasons of my life. I figure that life doesn’t begin in the dismal mid-winter of January, but with the spring-time promise of April. Is it just a coincidence that Pennsylvania’s traditional trout season also begins in April? So we add six months to April and we get October.
Autumn is the time to look back at a season’s worth of fishing. Sure there is some good fishing to be had – but it is melancholy fishing. Spring fishing is full of hope and anticipation – fall fishing is is tinged with regret (for places not fished) and nostalgia, and it is overshadowed by the looming specter of winter. In the spring anything is possible, but by the time Autumn arrives we realize there are streams we are not going to get to this year.
I recently went fishing on a small stream in the old mountains of southwest Pennsylvania. When I say small, I mean tiny, the kind of place where you can step across the stream in many places. It’s the kind of stream where you get the feeling that any hikers you see are probably thinking that you’re some sort of nut-job to be fishing there. They smile, nod and quickly move on – anybody fishing that trickle has got to be a little “off” and possibly dangerous.
Well, there are some fish there – small brookies. It amazes me that they are there at all. But it is even more surprising in the Autumn – to see these fish in full bloom is always a treat. Sometimes we fly fisherman can get complicated. But once the fish, sparkling and flipping, is in hand – we all become simple, taking in the colors, with wide eyes, with the eyes of a child. Marveling at the absurdity and audacity of nature. It’s proof that we were meant to fish – for surely mother nature would not array these fish in such fine dress, if we weren’t meant to admire them. Maybe that’s being a little anthropocentric, oh well…
Fishing in the Fall always brings out the melancholy side of me (okay it doesn’t take much to do that). I can’t help but to think, “Is this the last trip of the year?”
We can’t know the span of our days or the number of casts that we have left. As I get older I look back more and more and think of things past. Fall just seems like a natural time to do this. Of course there is always the anticipation of a new year and a new season. The spawning colors on that brookie are a promise of that. Nature has saved some of her most beautiful displays for the autumn, the fish, the leaves, the clear blue skies and golden, slanting sunlight. The best wine is brought out late in the celebration.
I want to mention the Fly Fishing Blog, Cutthroat Stalker. A couple of recent posts by Scott on his blog got me thinking about these things: Summer’s End and Monochromatic Interlude. Check them out for some great pictures and writing.
|
Tenkara Bum Flies and More 
Need some Tenkara flies? Check out the TenkaraBum for flies by myself and others, as well as Tenkara lines, nets, other accessories, reviews, how-to and more...
New Product Designs at CastingAround Zazzle store
|
