Neutered retirement plans

the Buck Tooth Mouse

The buck tooth mouse, waiting for a shot at some toothy critters.  In case you were wondering, no it’s not a real pattern.  At least not in the sense that you could google it and it’d return any results...although I haven’t tried.  I just like the way the downward facing ears push water.  I thought about calling it the tit mouse, or the sagging tit mouse, but decided the world wasn’t ready. 

 I’m always trying to come up with some revolutionary pattern.  Mostly in the hope that it will bring the leviathan up from his holding spot but, vainly, also because somewhere in the back of my selfish mind I imagine it becoming the next big thing.  The next woolly bugger, Adams, royal coachman, muddler minnow.  The pattern my grand kids can’t leave home without...the pattern I’m flown around the world to talk about, getting to experience amazing rivers I could have only ever dreamed or read about before.  A pattern that I would have to give classes on so you could learn to tie it.  Of course, ordinary rabbit zonkers would not do. Nope. It would have to be tip died, only sold from one company, and most importantly, only the bottom quarter section of a female rabbit killed in late August in the cedar swamps of the Eastern end up the Upper Peninsula. No, not the cedar swamp you're thinking. A different one.  What’s that?  Your local fly shop doesn’t sell that? Rest assured, you can order it from my website for a small up charge...no big deal.  But good luck catching any fish if you try to use generically zonked rabbit! Don't even get me started on the foam...it's flown in on a charter plane from the south of France and driven to my personal residence via armored car. I know what you're thinking...what about Hobby Lobby? Ha, don't make me laugh!

Anyhow, these buck tooth mice won’t get wet for at least a week.  At least that’s what the urologist says.  I’m going in to get neutered tomorrow morning.  Taking the plunge, getting it done. I have no idea what to expect. I think I've talked to too many people who've got it done. Some say they're fine within a few days, others say not to buy that shit, I'm looking at 2 weeks and will be carrying around 2 softballs in my boxers. Either way, it’s a weird feeling volunteering for something like this. I don't think I will feel emasculated (I had to use a dictionary for that one) in any way, but just knowing that I’ll never have anymore kids. I think I'll write more on that later. For now, I need to prepare the boys for an adventure neither one of us is likely to forget any time soon.

Tight Lines!

edit 1: make sure the doctor performing the surgery has ensured you are completely numb  
before he starts cutting! I didn't know I could scream that loud.

edit 2: the buck tooth mouse caught a fish!

Catch and Release Me From Your Ignorance...the obligatory rant.

Does anyone else feel like they're trying to explain calculus to a tadpole when trying to clarify why they release their fish?  I've tried the flower analogy (if you pick a flower, it ceases to be what you loved). I've tried explaining that “trout are sensitive creatures and we’re not exactly kind to the environment and I’d like it if there were still trout for my kids and grand kids to appreciate”.  I've tried just saying that it is a way to get out of the house and experience nature.  I think I've tried everything, and the best response I can get is a blank stare, maybe a smug laugh.     

I wonder what they'd think if they saw me nursing the fish back into the water, talking to it, cradling it so as not to squeeze too hard, and not letting go until I'm absolutely sure it's going to swim away... just as healthy as when it was fooled by my fly and we were both just as startled to our sudden connection, me graced by the fish's presence, him fighting for dear life.

what I would like to say:  “I don’t ask you to explain to me the appeal of spending 20 hours a week watching millionaires chase a ball, throw a ball, shoot a ball, or kick a ball.  Don’t ask me why I bother fishing  if I ‘don’t even keep the fish.’  Enjoy your perfectly maintained lawn and reality shows.”

I digress.  I know that sounded a little bitchy, maybe childish, and I suppose in the grand scheme of things it's not that big of a deal, just a blip on the radar. It's not mandatory that everyone understand as long as I do and as long as someone else out there does.

Fish Car Dreams and Schemes

Ah, the allure of a fish car.  Ever since I've read Traver characterize his fish car with such purpose, the idea has haunted me.  Everything you would need to escape the world for a week, maybe a month, already packed and ready to go at a moments notice. A dedicated trout hunting companion on four wheels.  Looks aren’t that important,  this ride is all about functionality.  

I recently chased this dream to its apparent inevitable consummation.  At least at this point in my life.  I stood on the precipice of greatness that is ownership of a fish car, and was subsequently knocked off by marriage, kind of.  It was actually going to be a fish Jeep (even better, I know).  I stumbled into the old Jeep Cherokee by accident.  It was at the end of its serviceable life, not fit for carting a family around anymore, floor boards rusted out and body in the process, it would have failed in an accident.  Being the good samaritan that I am, I took it in.  Adopted it when no one else would, saw beauty where others saw only rust, rattles, and rubbish.  It runs like a fish car should and asks for practically nothing, except maybe a little too much gas.  

Every cog was set in place.  Rod rack arranged just so, wader storage, axes, canned food, pop tarts, water, flint and steel, ropes, chains, extra clothes, coats, rain coats, gloves, hats, knives, saw, hammer, nails, more rope, more food, hatchet, shovel, emergency radio?, flashlights blah blah blah.  I won’t even go into detail about the rest of the fishing gear stored within.  

You see, I may have put the cart in front of the horse on this one, it seems I overlooked one small detail.  One catastrophically small detail.  Insurance.  I can be a pretty convincing guy.  I can talk my way in and out of some uncomfortable stuff if need be.  As it turns out, I cannot talk my wife into adding another $70/mo for car insurance on a “hobby” (as my wife calls it) that already costs an “exorbitant” amount of not only money, but time.  She doesn’t even want to hear about how well the canoe fits on top!  Doesn’t want to hear about how the old Cherokees can go through almost anything!  Doesn’t care that it would ultimately save money on car washes, since it would never need one...that’s a real reason, right?  And what about the fact that my regular car would receive less abuse and less miles, so it would “maintain value” longer.  Makes sense to me!  

So there she sits.  The fish Jeep that was only driven to the river once, maybe twice.  The fish Jeep that never was, serving out her days on short trips to work or to town.  We would have made a good team, her and I.  I wonder what her name would have been?  Something special no doubt.  

God damned car insurance.  

just about right

I like a fire that you can get close to....a little more than arms length.  Not made up of a bunch of sticks but more like 2 logs, still flaming, but barely.  Once a roaring blaze but now reduced to almost 80% coals.  One that can be left to burn all night while I sleep in the tent but still able to be rekindled in the morning with a little newspaper and sticks to make coffee.  If I started the night with a long stick to poke the coals that is now reduced to about 2 feet long, perfect.  If I’m camped on the bank of a river that holds trout...well fuck...what more could I wish for?

Is there old country on the radio...I don't mean ancient, but maybe some late 80's through 90's?  Or maybe some good classic rock?  Skynyrd, Stones, Seger, Petty...Creedence Clear Water Revival...or Revisited...whatever the hell it is now.  Alexi Murdoch?  Two Cellos?  OK, so apparently the music doesn't bloody matter.  Nor does the company really... if the kids were there...and by some miracle they were behaving...perfect.  If my wife is there and I haven't started a fight yet...perfect. By myself, a good fishing buddy, my dad...as long as I'm not at some state park, face to ass with 1,000 other people "out roughing it", than I guess I'm pretty happy.

Oh yeah, no fire pit or fire ring is a plus too. Certainly not the ones you need a step stool to lean over to get a peak at the flames.

Never take your kids fishing!

I have two young children, 6 and 4.  A few years back I decided I could start sharing my passion with them.  A deep rooted love of wild rivers, hard to get to lakes brimming with trout, solitude, and innocent fish rising to a dry fly.  My son was up first, he’s the oldest.    

The plans were laid, car packed, and we were off.  I had settled on the place long before...a lake with brook trout about an hour’s drive from our house (a long time for a kid to be in the car when it’s already past his bedtime).  Finally, upon arriving, he burst from the jeep and ran straight up to the lake in his rain boots and started...fishing? Nope...throwing rocks. After calming him down and putting the rod in his hands (he’d been practicing in the back yard) he made about 3 casts and was done.  Despite my "patient" urging, he couldn't have cared less about the rising fish near the bank.  These were freely rising brook trout, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? Do you not realize the gravity of this experience? Why..you ungrateful little…. A glance at the brookies I was catching and he was off again, running along the shore.  Long story short, we spent the rest of the night splashing in the water, throwing sticks and rocks, and talking about star wars (his passion at the time.)  

I don’t think I've stumbled upon any ancient wisdom here, but I did learn a few things.  First and foremost, my kids are not going to appreciate the serenity of the situation.  As much as I may have tried to impress it upon him, he’s a KID!  Also...and this is a really important one...they don’t really want to fish, at least not in the conventional sense.  They want to have an experience, and fortunately I was able to realize this fairly early in their lives after the initial butt hurt subsided.  

We don’t really go “fishing” together anymore.  We go for adventures that involve the following:

1)  a river or lake, as serene as possible (for me) but this is no longer mandatory...must be within a reasonable distance from the house

2)  a fishing pole or rod of ANY kind

3)  a trip to the store to pick out any snack they want, and a drink of their choice (this is the most exciting part for them)  Don’t tell mommy.  

4)  about 15 minutes of actual casting and fishing

5)  acceptance that we may not even end up fishing

6)  mumford and sons on the drive there...substitute any truly good music

7)  long talks about nothing and everything

8)  no expectations whatsoever...difficult, but possible

9) the occasional fish caught, almost never trout. (this was a hard one for me)  yes  bass are fish too, yes they’re fun to catch.  Yes pan fish can be fun too…but, but, they’re not trout!

The thing is, my hope is that they grow up and inherit my love of the outdoors, of rivers, solitude, contemplating life on a trout stream, trout, all fish...all the things fly fishing encompasses, but there’s a good chance they may not and that’s OK too.  But if they don’t, I want to be damned sure it wasn't because I tried to shove it down their throat.  

If by chance we meet on the river someday, and I’m standing with one or both of my kids, you can bet that this dad’s heart is bursting through my worn out waders with elation.  But...if it’s just me standing there, contemplating this evening’s rise or stalking a fish, they’re there too...in the forefront of my mind, bursting with pride as they pursue their dreams somewhere else.  

 (Just hopefully not on a tournament bass boat)

Two hearted and lost love

Do I like Two Hearted Ale because of the way it tastes or because there is a brook trout on the bottle, a story behind the name, and it goes well with tying flies? What the fuck is on the can by the way...it looks like a cross between a carp and a walleye?

          I promised my wife I wouldn't fish tonight.  I'm not really sure why. I guess I thought it was a nice gesture.  A "gas" budget may have something to do with it too.  I didn't fish last night either.  The hex are officially done up here...I think.  But what if they're not?  What if they're about to come off in a shit storm of glorious bugs and even more glorious fish, carelessly getting their fill?  What if there's no one on the entire fucking river system, and the fish are going crazy?  I should be there.  Hell, what if the ONE I lost a few weeks back is sitting in that same spot...the spot I've returned to so many times, waiting, watching, forsaking the rest of the river, even the rest of the fish in the river, for just one more shot at him?  Maybe it was a her.  I wonder if I'll ever lay eyes on him...her...I wonder if someone else will catch him and kill him, or if he'd already been caught and released. Probably so.  He was a smart fish.  It didn't take him long to wrap me around the logs, even well prepared as I was with my 8 weight rod and 10lb tippet.

I wonder if, when they manage to wrap the line around a log, it is a purposeful pursuit to the trout, or if they're just headed home and take a circuitous route to do so, in the process creating a lasting legacy of "the one that got away".  I was reminded recently that these are the most memorable fish, worth more than all else in the cosmic cost scale of time spent and things remembered.  It was only a few weeks ago, and the fish has now achieved legend status in my world. I wonder at his epic size in a few short years. A 20lb brown, no less.  My white whale.

Letting go of the hex

I live in northern MI.  Everyone thinks the hex are mostly done.  The truth is, they’re not.  Well, maybe as of today they are.  But even last night there were hex on the water, bringing out a few big feeders who are somehow still not stuffed...or at least still not sick of eating the bloody things.

This year has definitely been an exception.  I've been hexing for almost exactly two months.  My wife is running out of patience and may be looking for a boyfriend.  A few nights ago she told me she “feels like she doesn't even know me anymore.”  I've now accepted that most of my days will be a daze, eyelids drooping, slurring words.  I work in a sales job and make my own hours, so our finances are fucked...employer is running out of patience….long story short, it’s been awesome. This is what I live for. Luckily for my sanity and that of those around me the hex comes to an eventual end.

I met a guy on the river last night.  There’s something special about stumbling upon a complete stranger at midnight, in the middle of nowhere, headlamps off, chasing a mutual dream.  Apparently his wife is also questioning the sanity of her former self, who would choose to marry a fly fishing addict.  He said his wife feels like he "doesn't want to spend time with her", which makes me wonder a few things...would I rather spend the night fly fishing than with my wife?  Of course, my statistical probability of getting laid factors into that equation, but I don’t think it holds the most weight.  In fact, I think I’ve noticed that whether or not I think conditions are right for the hex has more to do with whether or not I choose to stay home, or to hit the river.   Does that make me a fish chaser?  At least for the hex season, I think it does.          

In all honestly, the hex hatch encompasses everything I love about fly fishing and everything I hate at the same time.   With large amounts of large fish come larger amounts of people seeking the fish over 20 inches.  I’m in the same boat, I understand,  I’m just in a different river.  Don’t get me wrong.  I love our famous rivers here in northern Michigan.  I just don’t love the crowds. Not because they’re made up of assholes, quite the contrary.  In fact, I’ve found almost everyone I’ve met on a river or on the bank to be wonderful company.   It’s my problem really, not anyone else's.  Whenever I feel the slightest bit competitive about a stretch of river the more my fishing experience mirrors that of a football game and less like what it really is.  “That would have been my fish, he crowded me, he’s trashing the river, spooking the fish, watching my casting form, judging my capability” add infinitum.  

Most of all, the hex has made me question why I truly fish.  See, like most, I tell myself I do it for conflicting reasons:  to seek solace, to seek companionship, to be one with the wild, the rivers, to just get out of the house.  But I fish the hex like I’m bat shit crazy. I’ve “temporarily” taken up smoking again.  I even snub the teen sized fish in fear of scaring away the monstrosity that may be lurking nearby in wait. I refuse to wet a line and search on the off chance of lining the 25 incher that just might be “waiting to feed.”  Since when did I become this pompous douche bag?  Since hex, that's when!  When will I stop?  When the hex stop coming off and not a cast sooner.  I’ve learned to accept it.  It’s the one time of year I really go crazy for those big fish.  Yes I mouse and yes I throw streamers, but i’m happy to catch anything the rest of the year no matter the size. The hex brings out the best and the worst in me.  In all reality, I think it brings out me.

Polishing the Compass

I specifically target trout because it gives me an excuse to create adventures.  Because all at once it allows me to feel like a kid and like a capable adult.

It gives me a reason to triple check my compass route, or to even own a compass for that matter.  It gives purpose to my aimless wandering.  A reason to check my maps, calculate distances between un-named roads that are just as likely to wind up ending at an old fallen down bridge or taper off to a squirrel trail as they are to lead anywhere of consequence.

It affords me the opportunity to not have a destination...to not know where I am going, but more importantly, not to care.

Welcome

               Sometimes i feel like i have a lot to say, sometimes little.  I fly fish.  It gives me purpose, it gives me balance, it gives me headaches and hangovers.  Read it, enjoy it...or don't.  From time to time I may have some great tips, techniques, etc .  If you're looking for philosophical life perspective through the eyes of a fly fisherman...you're in the right spot.   For the truly life changing, I'd recommend Ted Leeson, Thomas Mcguaine, Dave Ames, John Gierach, Robert Traver, or any other number of gifted writers.

      Fishing, fly fishing in particular, seems to be more than a hobby or a passion for some people.  It is who they are.  It's an addiction that courses through our veins, controls many a waking thought, and occupies many a night's sleep.  Like most blogs, there is a good chance almost no one will stumble their way to these pages, but on the off chance a few do, i would again like to say welcome.  My grammar will fail me, my words may not be life changing, but hell...neither one of us are fishing right now, so why not?