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Features
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Stories
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Written by Satchel
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Thursday, 05 November 2009 13:59 |
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 When most people hear the words “Special Regulations” they find themselves facing something that is going to limit them in some way, be more restrictive, harder to qualify for, etc. Of course, we flyfishers being sort of different from most people, find ourselves saying “good, this should be fun”! In most circumstances special regulations on sections of rivers and streams with trout in them mean that bait fishermen, spin fishermen, etc. can’t fish there, or if they are allowed to fish there, must use only a single barbless hook, and release all fish caught, etc. These special regulations areas have become a cherished thing in the fly fishing community because they mean that there is a chance that the fish there might grow beyond juvenile size and may indeed become quite large. Of course this has produced a few undesirable side effects as well.
On a recent week-long trip to attend a gathering of fly fishermen in the Eastern part of the country my buddy Curly and I had a chance to fish one of these places. This section of water happened to carry “delayed harvest” regulations which banned the keeping of any fish until mid-June. We were also limited to flies only, and barbless hooks. Curly and I sort of thought it might be pretty much fun to fish a place that doesn’t get hammered day-in and day-out by the worm dunkers and hardware slingers. Well, it turned out to be fun, as flyfishing nearly always does. But, we were also in for a bit of an education. |
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Last Updated ( Thursday, 05 November 2009 14:50 )
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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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A Change of Seasons in Virginia |
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Stories
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Written by Greg Holland
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Wednesday, 26 November 2008 14:56 |
 From my childhood, I remember the changes from summer to fall and then from fall to winter. Maybe it’s just my faded memory, but those changes always seemed to happen just as you’d expect; they had a predictable rhythm. The leaves on the trees turned the same colors at about the same time. School was in session and you were finally adjusted to new teachers and schedules. Football season was in full swing, whether it was playing YMCA flag football or rooting for the Hilltoppers down at Sullivan Field.
When I was even younger, it really started the day the Sears Christmas catalog arrived in the mailbox. Sometime near the beginning of August, I began a daily trek down the driveway to look in the mailbox to see if it had arrived. For a couple of years, my companion on these driveway trips was our cat Spike. Sometimes he followed me, playfully darting back and forth on some adventure like a dog would do (he thought he was a dog, making him history's coolest cat), while at other times he’d rub on my legs and purr, tripping me all the way to the street. |
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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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