He stared at the fish in his net. Seventeen inches of male brook trout in spawning colors - magnificent, and I said so. Leo didn't respond. After a moment he raised his eyes, which held the most curious expression, dispatched the trout with the butt of his knife and led the way up from the river without a word spoken.

You have to try it, but you feel in your gut that this fly, like the other thirty-seven you've tried, is not going to interest the trout. Most of your morning has been spent changing flies while alternately scowling at the plunge pool, tying Turle knots, adding tippet, and stifling sighs.

Please enjoy the skill, artistry, and sartorial elegance of this short Film from 1902

Now observe the tatterdemalion salmon fishing in this modern documentary

Almost embarrassing, isn't it, but nothing compared to the breezy approach they take in NZ

Some people are at their best when they're not breathing. Oh, I don't wish any harm to them; just a cessation of the respiratory process. Especially when they sleep. Most especially when they sleep in a cabin ... in the woods ... with me ... during a bitter northern winter...

It struck me with a violence I can only attribute to cogent thought; unfamiliar with it as I am, the sustained thought left me weak and shaken. All the years of striving to achieve some measure of harmony with the natural world were for naught. I saw myself in truth, a flagrant user of non-renewable resources, led into that cancerous condition through fly fishing. With as firm a resolve as a perpetually tottering will would permit, I vowed that "I shall be Green!"...

A friend, and superb fly-tier, was lamenting to me today that whenever he used duck quills he could always find plenty of usuable quills on the left wing, but fewer on the right. Immediately I understood the complete global implications of this information -- ducks don't actually migrate, but their stronger left wing causes them to fly in very large circles, of which we only detect the resting points...

There is something in fly fishing that breeds curmudgeons. Almost from the first day a young fellow (that is a typical expression from the "Angling Curmudgeon"; many would like to say "feller" but it doesn't flow properly when the owner drives a Beemer) takes the long rod in hand -- thereby instantly transforming himself into a magnet for every fly fisherman over forty, who must immediately impart angling advice -- the neophyte looks forward to the day when he, in turn, can be an Angling Curmudgeon.

The aerial photograph must have been taken with a wide-angle lens; there was considerable distortion at the edges. However, the important features were clear enough -- they’re clearer now -- the house, the tennis courts, the cliff, the white-capped sea. The caption read, “Windburn House -- an island retreat for serious writers where, in quiet solitude they may stitch any jagged rents in the delicate fabric of whimsey or rage their genius has woven.” I booked two weeks for rage and a third for whimsey.

It takes a fearless journalist to rewrite history, accurately portraying all the tawdry details of fictional events. One such brave soul was Milford "Stanley" Poltroon (a.k.a., David Bascom), the voice of unreason for the metropolis of West Yellowstone, Montana and author of the inimitable (we can only hope) tome "How to Fish Good" (Winchester, NY, 1971). Fortunately, he was able to document the event depicted below. Oh, the inhumanity! [To enjoy the gore in detail, click on the image.]

Below is one of my fly boxes of traditional American wet flies. These were all tied by the talented hands of Eric Austin of Delaware, Ohio. You wonder, don't you, how I can throw those works of the tier's art into the water; it takes steely resolve and a good leader knot. [Click on the image to see larger image.]

As a number of readers wanted to procure the Pisscalator Mark IV, I thought that I should issue the results of my field test. (see "Zippers on Waders...")

For those who are unfamiliar with the Pisscalator concept, the purpose of the invention is to allow a gentleman angler to continue fishing when the water in which he was standing is deep, and the fluid in his bladder is registering "FULL". No longer will it be necessary for the angler to wade back to shore, find a convenient (and discrete) tree, and partially disrobe in order to respond to Nature's urgent call -- the Pisscalator allows the fisherman to blithely fish and micturate simultaneously.

Chuangtse was fishing on the P'u River when the Prince of Ch'u sent two high officials to see him and said, "Our Prince desires to burden you with the administration of the Ch'u State." Chuangtse went on fishing without turning his head and said, "I have heard that in Ch'u there is a sacred tortoise which died when it was three thousand (years) old. The prince keeps this tortoise carefully enclosed in a chest in his ancestral temple. Now would this tortoise rather be dead and have its remains venerated, or would it rather be alive and wagging its tail in the mud?"

"It would rather be alive," replied the two officials, "and wagging its tail in the mud."

"Begone!" cried Chuangtse. "I too will wag my tail in the mud.
(from Chuangtse a work of the famous Taoist prose writer Chuangtse (d. 275 BC))

While wandering the aisles of my local fly shop in search of a half-price sale on Blue Chatterer, or Condor Quills three-for-a-dollar, I encountered a rack of chest-high fishing waders ornamented with a waterproof zipper in the front. Imagine, I thought, being able to stand up to your waist in fast water, thirty feet (but twenty minutes of wading) from shore, and you can relieve yourself without problems! But how did they design it so that you can unzip without water pouring in?

As I pondered that question, a thought surfaced in my mind, wallowed for a moment (disoriented in the unfamiliar environment) and then fled. But this momentary flash of insight was sufficient to provide a simple solution to that ageless angling dilemma – incontinence midstream.

Many of us have little time for leisure these days. The forty hour work-week that our great-grandfathers struggled to secure for us has been sold by many, their patrimony, for a mess of potage. Some didn't give it up gladly but from necessity as the gap ever widens between rich and poor. However, will he-nill he, the time is gone.

So, how we use our "fishing time" is more meaningful now than ever...

Just a note regarding a fine bronze sculpture of Judge John "Jonny" Voelker (a.k.a., Robert Travers) created by Ron Sheets of Loveland, CO. Ron drew his inspiration from the Fly Fisherman magazine cover photo by Robert Kelley which was described in the essay "Observations on a Soggy Cigar" last month.

Although I never had the opportunity to meet John Voelker, I think Ron has captured the essence of the man; you can almost smell stale cigar smoke, the blood of brook trout, and the scent of Old Fashions. We thank you, Ron, for your tribute to the UP's favorite son and a writer for the ages.

Life is a question of constant compromise in the material world; e.g., do you live in a small town with no traffic lights so your children can avoid the perils of more populous places and breathe clean air, or do you live in the city that they might be close to all the sources of classical and popular culture?

But we never should compromise on the essentials of life...

The pleasures of anonymity receive little acclaim. I first learned of the continual re-birth and renewal afforded by anonymity when I was eighteen and was four years on the road. To be "on the road" in the late sixties meant a backpack with a few clothes, some books, and an appetite for hunger. Today I would have been dubbed "homeless" but in the less euphemistic sixties, I was a bum, a tramp, a hippie, and a no-good #%@?&.

Only a small curl of smoke will be visible through the trees, but the odor of fresh tea may just reach your nostrils. Follow it down to the river and you will probably be able to spot me soaking up some rays with my back against a boulder, a cane rod leaning against a nearby bush, an amber silk line, drying in the sun. You're welcome to some tea, I carry an extra cup in the back pouch of my vest, and if you want to talk about the fishing, that's fine, too. Maybe you just want to poke the fire, a hand-sized collection of coals, and stare at the river... perfect day for that. I won't be back in the water for at least another hour, I'm resting the pool and the sun is directly overhead, anyway. The only place where a trout wouldn't be blinded is going to be in the shadow of a midstream rock. I'll try to wake up a brown there, after my tea....

A friend mentioned this subject to me today, so I unearthed (from Overmywaders) the following short treatise. It was originally written as a concept, which I then offered to a usually receptive editor. Surprisingly, he declined it.
Who can understand the minds of editors?...