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Stories
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Written by Doug Gilmore
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Friday, 23 May 2008 23:14 |
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 On a particular Monday in May, I go fishing. As is my usual custom, I travel alone and I fish alone.
This particular Monday hosts an annual bacchanalia of drink, barbecue, and outdoor fun - the unofficial first day of summer. The rivers are crowded.
My favorite streams are packed with corn-chuckers, bait slingers, and hardware throwers. Not the sort of halcyon fishing environment sought after by most fly fishermen, and particularly not by solitary types like me.
The crowds don’t know about Sweetwater Falls and the rhododendron lined brook above it, tucked two miles back in Juniper Hollow, all two miles accessible only by feet that know the pathway and have the permission of the land holder. That permission would be hard to get these days. I buried him four years ago after the old wounds finally caught up with him. He left me trustee over a piece of land timbered and old and green and gray and wrinkled.
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Last Updated ( Friday, 23 May 2008 23:28 )
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Stories
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Written by Doug Gilmore
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Saturday, 04 April 2009 16:13 |
It’s a Saturday. I can see the world through the window. The sky is pale blue with thin lines of feathered clouds running west to east. A slight breeze moves the pine tree outside the glass. The hardwoods are budding and yellow-green pollen stains the parking lot.
Not too far from here, there are men and women standing in cold water, with long rods of graphite, fiberglass or bamboo. They are hoping for a fish, hoping not to fall, hoping for a good drift, and knowing that it will come.
Not too far from here, there are men and women with their dogs, walking in a park, or maybe working a field, training a young pup. And that young pup is learning to zero in on the scent cone and to let his genetics rule his impulses.
Not too far from here, there are boys and girls playing soccer and baseball and softball. And their parents are cheering them on.
And lovers snuggle and kites are flown and babies are taking their first step.
The man in the bed in front of me is dying. He’s been dying for a year and a half, but it’s closer now. How close, no one knows. The doctor says it could be six months. It could be a year. It’s a pity.
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Last Updated ( Tuesday, 07 April 2009 07:57 )
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Stories
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Written by Michael Stevenson
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Monday, 29 December 2008 15:37 |
Here it was, the last Saturday in September and George was again getting ready to meet Sam for the day, fishing Simpson's Creek for wild brook trout. "How do these darn traditions start anyway?" he thought. "Sam and I have fished Simpson's Creek every year on the last Saturday in September for 15 years, and never caught a fish over 9", but we still turn up regular as clockwork".
George knew Sam would arrive ahead of him, he always did. He gave a little snort thinking about the number of times he had heard Sam say "You gotta get up early to fool the big ones". But George liked a leisurely breakfast with Mary, his wife, and he knew those wild brookies didn't care what time he showed up, they would still be hungry.
"Thinking about fishing already?" Mary's voice interrupted his reminiscing.
"Have I got a sign on my forehead?" George smiled. Mary knew him too well sometimes, that was one of the things he loved about her.
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Last Updated ( Monday, 29 December 2008 15:40 )
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Stories
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Written by Michael Stevenson
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Tuesday, 07 October 2008 09:57 |
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The minute George saw the river, his blood pressure and heart rate went up. The Thomas River was a freestone stream fed by the mountain snows and spring rains. There had been a fresh about a week ago and, while the river was still dropping, this morning it was clear and flowing just a bit above normal. The run was the sort to haunt the dreams of every fly fisher from Bangor to LA. The main current was hard against the far bank with a wide fan of water bubbling down into the eye. George just knew there was a big fish in there under that rippling surface. It was perfect. Everything was so right George 'knew' it was going to be one of those rare great days no one really believes you when you tell them about it. As he rigged up, George chuckled thinking how he felt like a little kid and then thought how great it was after all these years of fishing he could still feel like a little kid. He couldn't remember tying on a fly but the next thing knew his first drift was gliding through the feeding lane. The drift lasted only three feet when there was a terrific hit and a massive fish took off down the river. Suddenly his rod was flying out of his hand. With a shout he lunged and fell..... |
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Last Updated ( Friday, 17 October 2008 08:19 )
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Stories
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Written by Len Harris
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Thursday, 21 August 2008 11:28 |
 I really need to give some history to this story before I get to the actual story. Two springs ago we had a huge flood in the southwest part of Wisconsin. Most of the streams were dramatically effected by this flood. Many streams were widened and others had holes where there were never any.
The water finally receded and I decided to go look at my streams to see if any of them were fishable. Most of the bigger streams were still chocolate milk. I decided to take a look at a couple of my brookie streams. I remembered one stream in particular that I had been fishing with a friend at a huge beaver dam. The beaver dam was still intact.
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Last Updated ( Thursday, 21 August 2008 11:50 )
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