My new grand-daddy has eight fingers

I stood in front of 30 or so people at Gander Mountain in Denver Thursday night, speaking on behalf of my favorite river, THE Eagle. I believed everything I said but Its fishing after all....anything can happen. So as I finished my 16 hour day with a drive back up the hill to an elevation my clogged sinuses could handle I wondered if I promised too much. We floated the Eagle several times this week at very low water and It was magic. Of course I had some real talent on the rod in JMac, that always makes a difference. It's a team thing in low water and my boy has honestly become an incredible oars man on what alot of people call the hardest row in the state, he put me all over fish. I watched him and my boat pass me twice yesterday as I did a full day wade, the boy bores as easy as me. You can read Joe's sales pitch on this very special pre run off season at laterallinemedia.com.

My faith in the Eagle was confirmed yesterday on a full day assault with my client Bruce from Denver. He has heard the word (at the fly fishing shows in January) and this fine angler booked a trip to find out for himself. We pounded about 2 miles of river in 10 hours and I know Bruce would tell you he was not disappointed. I'm not a fish counter but we put up a very big number with several fish displaying a girth that would make a porn star blush. My girl showed her true colors for us, even surrendering a huge Rainbow well over the 20" mark late in the day that I rudely dropped before a picture could be taken. At the end of the day I asked him to spread the word amongst all his fishing buddies and he was hesitant. "Maybe i should keep this quiet" he said. Hopefully I changed his mind when I explained I have diapers to buy, but I understand where he was coming from.

Not sure what to stare at here, that pretty Eagle river Bow or Bruce's hand built Sage XP with a cool Gary Borger reel.

All in all it was a great week on my home river. The Rattlesnake inked a deal for a private take out with an 8 fingered man effectively solving my gas price issue. No more doubles on the Colorado while the water here lasts. An old proven pattern that hasn't worked for the last couple of years decided to pay some bills all of a sudden.....thanks, I had faith you would be back. I found a tattoo artist willing to barter, decided it's time to move and beat the cold my boy Sam gave me. Of course the fact my streamer rod has been getting used does not suck either.

Definition of the month:

Dropping Bombs: Long range casting, a distance not comfortable for someone who can't mend, A Sam fart.

Hand to hand combat: Short range target casting often involving radical freelance casting to pockets the size of a couch pillow.

Where's your water come from?

On the bright side, shallow water Largemouth fishing on the Upper Colorado would be easier.

A Buddist's tapered leader

I believe I have gained insight about what it's like to be a Green Bell Pepper. No my devout connection to our good mother earth has not entered a new level, I have not added another quarter. Just seems to me like there is a lack of emphasis on good old faith, instinct and ancient teachings these days. Data is "easier" to collect and store, shit I witnessed it being done with an app on a phone the other day. That day turned out to be 2 hours of insane fishing to boilihg trout, one rod, two fisherman, lots of fun. Ironically I saw no post fishing key board activity, there must have been faith that memory would serve. Where, when, who, hatch, temps, tip, did lunch suck, etc. Old school "journal" that fits in your pocket and beeps at ya, fishing reports at your finger tips. I have not contracted "technological evolution difficulty syndrome", I dig it, data rules the world, I'm just more of a flip phone guy..

 I've seen the stomach pump in and around the shop for about a year now,  I actually own one, still in the package  from Panorama Outfitters back in 1989. The political or maybe religious discussion quietly bounced around the huddle of guides last summer; would a stomach pump make me a better guide? It certainly gives you fresh data with a side of proof, but at what cost? Maybe it's a past life heavily influenced by PETA, but I just figured that doesn't look pleasant; especially after the merciless half drowning by a low rod angle and 3X. The little beast worked hard fighting you and for that tiny larvae dinner let her swim away with a little pride.

Buddhism and blind faith is chapter 5 in the manual. Listen to your teachers, they own the noble truth. The wise sage of six casts an hour, the early years fundamentalist, the observer, the know it all and the minimalist are a few characters of worth on the path. A wise yet ridiculous fly pattern at the all together wrong time of year is a gift that may appear in words and give reward for years based on how you treat the secret. Separation of mind and thought in an effort to simplify the process has historically meant, get a good drift. Any info your collecting from the gullet of some unsuspecting fish can be actually viewed while "alive", in the water, air and bank side foliage. Unfortunately collecting data in that manner would require long slow breaths, patience, and concentration all of which cost you blind casting time. Who we have learned from, where we have learned, how we learned become more important than why we learned in games like fly fishing. If you are"aware" there is a connection to our surroundings that stays with us to be used again, all without being recorded to a devise, answers will come naturally.

A good old school Prince or Pheasant Tail still works but data and thirst for solutions have lead to must have hybrids of the same fly. The original data was good, but change happens always, there is no stopping or controlling that. Purple flash butt wiggle prince works great too as long as its drifting right. How we continually connect with the organic matter around us determines the severity of our journey to contentment in this sport. Its funny how experience and  attention has crossed paths with the quick burn of technology. Kind of like the bell pepper. Has anyone but me noticed the quick fall from grace the bitter Green Bell Pepper has made. Why go green when you can get some quick heat from a hybrid hottie instead. Think about it next time you go to your black berry for a fly selection and it says pink flash prince with rubber legs and a dash of jalapeno.

Definition of the month:

Junk: your flies or rig; hopefully not a discription of your drift, the stuff you stashed under my rain jacket before our float.

Credit Nick Williams for these 2 great photos from a few winters back. Still one of the best in the business with a camera and he's holding a few from a recent trip to the Yampa.

As of late

My apologies to the two of you who read this. I have not been a good blogger lately. It's been quite a month, and it had nothing to do with an orange jump suit.

The old computer dinosaur finally died which hindered my blogging and dropped stock in a few porn sites. Many many thanks to John Knight for furnishing me with a new one for an exceptional price, flies. No I cant just steal a handful a week from the shop, he wants the custom top secret variety for his upcoming summer of competitive fly fishing. He's probably screwed but I'm back on line.

Things have gotten very busy around the ol fly shop and I have been doing floats on the Roaring Fork almost daily for the last 3 weeks. Believe me or not, the fishing has been off the hook. Rank beginners, kids and even drunk fly shop owners have been sticking Fork piggies. The water has begun to stain a bit below the Crystal River but that has only seemed to make things better. At least I've been able to put my 6x away.

A very loud shout out to Outcast boats! I am a terrible rower so I have always felt that my baby was one tough ship, but apparently they make them strong enough to drag down the highway. On my way to pick up my regular March clients Ms Shay and her husband Lenny my boat became dislodged from its cradle. Luckily the tattered winch strap which should have been replaced 3 years ago is rated for 78 mph. I dragged my girl a few hundred yards, much to the dismay of the rush hour traffic around me and she survived to float again. Funny enough I credit Mag Chloride. There was enough of the crap on the road to protect the bottom of the raft and when I leaned underneath her at the Wolcott exit for a heart pounding inspection I scraped a nice 1/2 inch layer from the hot rubber. Thank you to the fine people at the DOT.

We shot an episode of  "Fishful Thinker" for the Altitude network in early March on the Roaring Fork. My open mind was running in circles in preparation for having a gear guy in the boat on top of some of my favorite employees. The dinner conversation was a bit tense when the demand of cutting trebles from 7" swim baits came up but the Makers Mark helped.....alot. I honestly did not realize they don't swim or sink right when you cut that many hooks off, it didnt matter, he caught a bunch. The host Chad and his camera guy turned out to be great guys and Chad can honestly chuck a chunk of gear in any spot you ask. Their dull knife was a welcome addition to the tying session even if I was not allowed to touch it. They ended up very happy that my boy Scott Thompson was able to catch so many fish. I guess he has tried to film the "Fly Guy" vs the "Gear guy" episode quite a few times and the Fly dude never does that well. My friend Scott represented the fly fishing community extremely well. Look for my bad rowing, poor decision making, buff covered melon on Altitude the morning of March 26th. And No, Outdoor Television does not pay very well, they did tip nicely though.......Thanks Chad and Tim.

So my Mom is in town this week to see her Grandson Sam. She doesn't get to see him as much as either would like, so when she is here the education is constant, fast and furious. The potty training  lessons started in the airport, god love Grandma B. So as a distraction and a way to get the young prodigy to take a nap I suggested we take a drive to the upper Colorado so I might check the water for another option in the days to come. The water looked great, clean and clear, free of ice and 39 degrees. The unusually deserted put in at Pump House offered me a perfect opportunity to again teach my young son the joys of relieving himself in the great outdoors. Unfortunately during my manly right I sharted, I'm sorry, I shit my pants, right there in the bushes next to the river I love, in front of my mother and young son. Who needs the potty training? I could only imagine the shuttle driver or the DOW driving down and seeing me buck naked while learning first hand how soothing those baby wipes actually are.
I've been busy as of late.

Yes Zim, pictures of people holding their rods in their mouth bug me, but I don't like the taste of cork unless it has something to do with red wine. I also just admitted that I shit my pants so who's gonna listen to me.

Definition of the month: In honor of the pro football mess.
Occasionally when arriving back from a trip other guides will ask how your peeps did. We or I have developed 2 teams.

AFC Team: Awesome Fucking Chances

NFC Team: No Fucking Chance

High and Dry

My good friend Scott Thompson, fellow guide, fishing buddy and video guru has just finished some genius work I can't help but share. It has a PG rating (particularly gruesome) as it's an eye opener, If you are a trout fisherman here in Colorado (or any where) Please watch this. Look for more from these guys soon on the water problems we have on the upper Colorado River Basin. Also check out the website savethetrout.org. Get involved before it's to late.

Superstitions

I am superstitious. I read my horoscope everyday and my left sock always goes on first. I go through certain routines to insure cosmic participation in the ultimate game of chance, fishing. It definitely stems from my back ground as a very average Hockey goalie. Getting scored on early usually could be traced back to the amount of times I tapped the post before the whistle, always 3 on each side.I have a few rules I follow in an attempt to keep the planets aligned during a day of fishing. Some i try and discuss before we get too wet, others I leave unexplained for fear of looking like a loon.

Shortly after I bought my first fly rod, my older brother came to me and wanted to join the team. He was hooked instantly and still is to this day. Hes honestly one of the best fisherman I spend time with. For the first year or so the poor boy was out fished badly and I'm positive he didn't enjoy that part so much. Being a cocky younger brother I vividly remember letting him know I was kicking his ass, I would find out that doesn't help. I went on one of the longest loosing streaks of my life, not including my 10 years with Ms. Whitey. I specifically remember getting out fished 8 trips in a row which spanned a few months since we both had real jobs at the time. Not going to lie, it hurt. If I knew a witch doctor I would have made an appointment. All my skill, all my luck had been drained. I was young and dumb, I placed the blame out side of my responsibility. I was sure I was maloiked by my girl friends Italian grandmother for not having 5ths at Sunday dinner. In the end I realized it was Karma and it was my doing. So every so often I'll have a couple of dudes in my boat and one will be mowing the others lawn pretty good and the teasing begins. I've warned a few guys of the danger in this and I have seen more than once, the switch flipped. It doesn't always work that way. Jmac rode poor Zim endlessly last Friday as we floated the Fork. Both these guys are in a different league than 98% of my peeps so I really didn't think planetary alignment counted. Zim got an ass kicking, but he didn't mind. It hurt to watch.

Another quick way to a batting slump is holding someone else's fish for a picture. I've had more than one Dad catch a fish and want his son or daughter to hold it for a picture. Surprisingly most kids refuse. I'm not sure if that's because they are afraid to touch slimy fish or they are wise old souls but I am always impressed. I just can't imagine looking at a picture on the wall of me holding a fish someone else caught. A snagged fish should also never be held in front of a camera lens, Bad Karma.

This week an organization I love and respect fired a man that I really admire(pictured). I hope this organization has stock piled a ton of juju because from the outside looking in, they may be in for a rough patch. Never interupt a perfect drift.

I fished a couple of summers with a hunting buddy named Dale. It's kind of a reach to say that we fished together because most days he got as far out of sight as possible for some reason. He always hammered fish, I just never saw one. I'm still not going to call him a liar but I will say that, terrible bluffs don't help when your playing cards with the gods of fishing.

Check your hat at the door. I know this is amusing to everyone but baseball pitchers, bass fishermen and rabid Nascar fans, but I'm serious. I am usually very uncomfortable fishing in a new hat. Theres no mojo. Certain hats have experience, they have been present for some form of magic, and It's noticeable if you keep track. I seriously suggest hammering your buddies stocked pond with a new hat to pump a little confidence into it before taking it on a float down a real river.

In the end our cosmic energy, our luck, our Karma is the fruit of our actions and intentions. Loving your brothers success while fishing will always help, your soul has to believe that though, ya just can't say it. My dog's name is Karma who dispite her name has not been the greatest dog I've ever owned. Probably my fault.

Definitions of the month:
Timmy: a trout under 10 inches

Ronnie: a trout 10-16 inches

Bubba: a trout 16-20 inches

Kamongaheela: a trout over 20 inches

Laugh a little and slow down

Everything is harder in the winter, I’ve discovered it can be pretty funny too. The comfort and warmth of the indoors confuse the urge to spend time in moving water enough to make it a major decision. Tying flies on, untangling a client’s new leader, scrubbing the mag chloride from your boat or even enjoying a handful of skittles just become more time consuming. Anytime there is a trip booked in the harsh months of December or January and I am pleased, no matter the forecast. This is much different than it used to be when there were enough winter clients to keep pop tarts in the cupboard. Like elsewhere, it’s become more of a struggle and lest we forget I live in the Beverly Hills of the Rockies where its simply harder to get by. Winter peeps have evolved a touch in the time I’ve been doing this. With no tone of prejudice I can explain that during certain holiday events here, my client base is very Latin. In the past, winter was when we got “true” fishermen, guys with experience. Not so much anymore; true blue Patagucci wearing Americans got a little soft with the economy or something. Latin it is, the Euro aint bad either.. Incredibly nice people for what I understand, I hope they say the same for me.
A big key to winter fishing or winter guiding for that matter is to take things slow, think things through. So just before Christmas I pick up a very excited “Pablo” and his not so psyched uncle “Juan” from a snow ridden fancy hotel in Vail. They are from Mexico City and Madrid with so much baggage I thought I was dropping them at the airport when we were done. Air temp 5, expectation meter reading around 100 but no pressure, so I just try and go slow. Slow to answer, slow to drive. The pace of summer is all around guides and sometimes its hard to shut off. We are always in a hurry. Hurry to get there, hurry to rig, hurry to fall in line or better yet beat it, hurry to eat, hurry to bed and sometimes in a hurry to level out the expectations. The excitement surrounding a 400 dollar float trip understandably includes some expectations, almost like, the cash that bought this person dressed in drab colors driving the truck and boat guarantees lots of large Trout.
Pablo is a “very experienced” salt water fisherman all of 19. Juan is the 40 something uncle who pays for these “crazy” adventures. Never fished a day with a “fly pole” though, but “they should be fine”. Before they both took a pre float nap in the 4 Runner (which was weird but relaxing) they spoke endlessly of the great success they were looking forward to. I took it slow and said nothing. My spirits jumped when I arrive at the Fork to 35 degree air, 39 degree water and not another fisherman to be seen. What shook me from my optimistic glare made me want to laugh, no cry with laughter…….bright sky blue neoprene waders, a few sizes to small, with a very confident Pablo packed inside. I took it slow and said nothing. About the time I thought I had seen it all, Pablo produces a bottle of Powerbait spray. He turns, holds the bottle at me and says “this stuff only works in the summer right?” I smile and nod. Maybe I should have said something cuz it just didn’t end, before I knew it Pablo came across some more gear he could not live the day without and wanted to know where my dry bag was. I only smile as he buries his Berkley scale deep inside the bag like it would be ruined if it got wet. I took it slow but had to ask, “how high does that scale go?’ I heard 50 lbs and then smiled. We didn’t catch a thing.
The wind really started to howl around 12:30 so I found a bridge and some bushes to take shelter for lunch. I never understood a word spoken at lunch but I come from a time when you didn’t need a language class to escape high school. After 17 mins or so they were nice enough to ask if I understood Spanish and then promptly went back to speaking it. Sure it would be easy to feel sensitive or left out at this point but I just enjoyed giggling once in awhile to make them wonder. Tone is universal. I didn’t need to understand the language to know uncle Juan was over it. It was 2 or so when the weather went bad enough for the snow to hurt. It was 3 ish when after a spirited discussion I didn’t understand ended with “how far to the truck Bob?” In English, in the winter, that means, Time to hurry.

A helpful winter tip for booking a trip: If you call the shop during an arctic cold blast to schedule some fishing with your 6 year old daughter, don’t explain you are from Minnesota if you’ve lived in Arizona the last 9 years. Lasting 1/4 the time of your trip should convince you that you are no longer a northerner. Your little girl was a trooper though.

Definition of the month: Chewer: A trout that puts a fly in it's mouth long enough for Helen Keller to set the hook; a fish trying to give you a chance