Gone Bamboo

Several months back the Outdoor Blogger Network announced Fall River Fly Rods had built a bamboo rod for OBN, or more precisely, for 15 OBN members to test, fish, and blog about. At the end of this nation-wide circuit, one of the bloggers will be drawn to win the package. I am one of the privileged few. It arrived yesterday. This is our story.

They say you can't judge a book by its cover (though that certainly hasn't stopped publishers now has it). I think I can judge this package by its cover. It's a black six inch tube well over 5 feet long, festooned with canceled stamps and postal tape, and best of all, stickers. Stickers of fish and flies, from Vermont, and New Mexico and Virginia. There is a fly rod in this tube, I just know it.

It was kind of like Christmas in July opening this thing up. It held not only the rod and a reel from Montana Fly Company, but when I carefully removed these out fluttered a pile of other things it had accumulated along the way. Flies tied by the users. A journal. More stickers. Storms were piling up on Lake Michigan and so I carefully delved in.

The instructions, oh the instructions. "Do not leave the rod in a hot car as this can soften the glue and ruin the rod". I'm paraphrasing. I tend to be rough on gear, I broke most of my rod tips last year, and the tip on this rod looks like a toothpick. A very beautiful toothpick. Don't worry, being that the rod isn't mine and worth more than all my other rods put together, I will be very careful. No riding around with the rod set up. No bringing the rod to work so I can fish on the way home (it's too hot). I've memorized the assembly and dis-assembly instructions. I'll hang it in my closet. I got to hang out with my friend and bamboo rod builder Lou Burhart last week for a couple of hours. He assures me that if anything, bamboo rods, being solid and not hollow like graphite, are the tougher of the two materials.

I took the rod down to Crooked River for a test cast. It has some considerable heft. I'm not laying the casts out quite like I'd like. A big late breakfast is laying heavily on me and the rumble of thunder is negating the thought of a trip. A nap is definitely in order. What greater luxury is there than a Saturday afternoon nap?

I woke after a couple of hours feeling refreshed. One look at the sky and a glance at the radar confirmed what I needed to know. It was time to go bamboo.

I made the 5 minute drive to the Maple river trying to drill the assembly instructions into my sleep-addled mind. "Hands together together, hands apart apart". It appears that half my gear is missing, the result of having to switch back to my spare waders. This rod is beautiful, the wraps are perfect. Tip O the hat to Mr. Zicha. I arrived at the input only to find another vehicle there, but after I wadered up and started walking to the bridge I see two young women in bikinis on the banks, swimming in the heat of the day. Ah, summer.

The water is woefully low, I haven't seen it this low and clear since 1988, when it almost stopped flowing entirely. Fortunately it's not that low, and it feels cold to the touch, assuring me I won't over-stress the fish. Recent rains and cool days and nights have helped.

At first I find this rod a little intimidating. It's expensive. It's a little heavier than I'm used to, though not heavier than my 8 weights. I'm not getting the rhythm. It's bamboo. Fish are scattering as I approach, and I see more scatter as my line flops on the water. Soon enough I reach a braided section of stream. The pool below the confluence always holds a pod of brook trout. I concentrate hard on laying out a gentle forty foot cast. Sure enough, I get a slashing rise and a miss. Two casts later I have a small but lovely brook trout in hand. Then another.

I make my way upstream. Things are starting to fall into line. I catch about a dozen small fish, and later, an 8 inch brown and some small rainbows, baby steelhead actually, the Maple river slam. The conditions are tough, the light glary, and the water low, but after awhile I realize that I am no longer fishing bamboo. I am merely fishing.

Bamboo rods are about traditions. The Maple river is my tradition. My grandparents lived on and watched after the land that is now a golf course, with about a mile of river flowing through it. We had exclusive access to this water back then and rarely saw other anglers here. I learned to fish and fly fish from my grandfather here. I learned about the Hex hatch. I swam with my brothers and cousins in the holes. I did my first night fishing here. I caught my first trout on a fly just up stream and in sight of the restaurant. It is my tradition. My grandfathers ashes rest here. Somehow, being here in this changed but familiar place with this rod brings me back. It's pleasant to spend a leisurely afternoon, catching dinks, thinking of my grandfather, enjoying the feel and rhythm of a fine rod, catching fish.

I've gone bamboo, and you can't save me.

Sunday Sojourn, or Why We Fish

I tried to fish on Sunday. I say "tried" because there were so many obstacles, real and perceived, not the least of which was the fractious weather of the night before. As the sun had waned thunder storms popped up, rattling my place and drenching us with rain. There was no perceptible front approaching from the west when I checked the radar- all was quiet one moment, and in the next Lake Michigan had disgorged a band of storm that washed slowly over the Straits of Mackinac. Two hours later it happened again, and it proceeded to unleash these storms in waves until the light had once again turned gray. My sleep was restless, punctuated by flashing light, the sharp crack of thunder, or more constantly, the deep rumble of it, like a freight train trundling off into the distance, and occasionally, the sound of heavy rain pelting down on my metal roof, and the waterfall sound of it being dispensed with.

Such nights make me restive, but for some reason I find them relaxing, blissful even. I awoke early Sunday morning and drank my coffee to the rumble of the last of the storms, my eaves still dripping. I had fished all night Friday without success, arriving home at around 4 a.m., sleeping until ten, a leisurely breakfast, then the balance of Saturday was spent writing. Scribble scribble. I had intended to fish for brook trout Saturday evening, but the threatening skies and an unfinished paragraph had discouraged me. I'll fish tomorrow.

Sunday I awoke to a wet world, stifling humidity and building heat. I also awoke to that same pile of laundry and stack of dishes. I dispatched the domestic chores, tied a couple of flies, and by early afternoon made my way to some new brook trout water.

The next problem would be that full night of rain. I checked several local river gauges online and sure enough, they all had a significant spike to them.  I went to a stretch of river I have only fished once before. It is beautiful, choked, darkly stained, and difficult to access- perfect brook trout water. I bumped along the narrow track, grateful the gas drillers had filled the low spots with crushed rock so I could get through.

When I finally arrived, literally at the end of the road, there was nothing but heat, a couple of deer flies, and a rustic stairway leading into the water. When I looked the water was lapping the step and very dirty. It was also quite cold. For the first half mile I hardly fished at all, the river a virtual tunnel of tag alder. You wind your way up, over and through it, trying not to be swallowed by the blackness of the water. My few casts were of the bow-and-arrow type, shooting my fly into the few lies I could find, or more often, into the branches. I did manage to catch one fish, and miss two others, all at close range. I found some very promising water, including a couple of holes that nearly swallowed me, but in the end the heat, high water and lack of fish made me think of other things I could be doing. After all, I live here- why beat myself up on a bad day? I'll come back next week, or some evening after work.

I then broke a cardinal rule on this particular river. Two weeks prior I had explained to an Ohio angler that we don't get out of this river and hike back to the vehicles. We make an about face and walk back down the river. The reason is simple- it's set in a wide flood plain choked with tag alder, a maddening jungle of sharp grass and thick brush, nearly impenetrable. But no, I actually climbed the banks and for the next half hour I stumbled through this maze, the visibility measured in feet, the grass head high, turning back often at the walls of brush and downed trees, trying to keep the sun just over my right shoulder as a bearing.

At last I gratefully stumbled out into open forest, I turned north and headed back on a game trail. The rank livestock smell told me that a herd of elk had come through recently, this morning as a matter of fact, as the night's rain would have washed the area clean. I soon came to a lone log cabin set in the pines, someone's hunting camp, pristine, with a red brick chimney, which I liked for the fact that red brick is hard to find in Northern Michigan. It looked abandoned, except for the whiteness of the split logs on the wood pile which whispered "we have been here". Regardless of its state now, this cabin will be occupied come November, I guarantee it.

"I knew the rivers were blown and dirty, I knew it was hot, the bugs bad and the road long."

What is the point you ask? I went just to go, to be there- to be. I knew the rivers were blown and dirty, I knew it was hot, the bugs bad and the road long. I just needed to be out there, to curse the tag alders, to see one little trout glistening in my hand. I needed to stumble through that swamp. I needed to smell the scent of young bull elk mingling with that of green ferns and hot dead leaves. I needed to see that cabin, to imagine what it is like to come up here and get away, to have all of this be fresh and new, the place where you caught your first brook trout, or shot your first buck, saw your first bull elk, rutting, muddy, red-eyed and hoarse from bugling.

Fly fishing isn't about catching fish, or being a great caster, or even about knowing how to tie flies. It is about experiences and flavor, it is about living life in intimate contact with the natural world; of touching, breathing, smelling and etching deep into your mind what it is like to be out there, exploring our home.

FR on MidCurrent

A couple of months ago when MidCurrent advertised that they were looking for a couple of interns, I entertained the thought and made some inquiries. I decided that I was unable to make the time commitment, but MidCurrent publisher Marshall Cutchin asked if I would be willing to submit creative work from time to time. Last month they published a short piece called "The Hexes are Coming!" and now this week they featured in their weekly newsletter my latest piece. Here's the opening.

UP Solitaire- Upper Tahquamenon


I’M FRANTICALLY TRYING TO RETIE. I have my fly in one hand and my curlicued leader in the other.  A sharp pain on my elbow signals yet another deer fly bite.  Several more are circling, landing on my hands and buzzing my hat brim, making life miserable. Sweat is running off my nose, leaking from under my hat, down my neck and face. I’m just as wet inside my waders as out, as this is one of the hottest days of summer yet.  After an interminable time spent tying on this one lousy fly I’m ready. Except that while tying, swatting and sweating I’ve managed to wrap my fly line in the nearest tag alder and now this must be untangled while simultaneously waging war on the deer flies. I’ve started my own personal deer fly hatch. I hope the brookies appreciate it.


Please go to Midcurrent to read the rest. It's one of my best. Here's the link.


http://midcurrent.com/travel/up-solitaire-upper-tahquamenon/

proof of savagery in the UP

Wednesday Morning Coffee- July 11. Bass Finger Edition

Yawn, stretch, scratch, sniff, open left eye first. Is it okay to get out of bed? No choice, I have to leave for work in an hour, so I stumble to the kitchen and set the electric kettle to work, boiling water for our coffee. I'm going to drink a quart, so I don't know what you're going to do.

I got to looking at this site this weekend and realized it has gotten pretty sparse as of late. What can I say? I've been working, fishing and writing. I've also taken a bit of a hiatus here. When blogging feels like work it's time to step it on back.

I have been enjoying my summer- the fire, the heatwave, the insanity of the tourist season, my frenetic fishing between jobs, the successful release of the book by the Boyne Writer's Circle, grilled vegetables, light-seeking bugs in my house at nights, a couple of long drives in search of something not fish, and visits by new friends and old, some of whom I didn't quite connect with.

Beaver Island is everything you have read and more. I'm planning on spending a week next year, though mostly to write. With spotty cell service, worse internet, and a long trek back to the mainland, I can't think of a better place in the continental US to escape to.

What? Are you grunting at me? At this hour in the morning? You want me to shut up and show you fish pictures? Even though I Facebooked most of them?

Very well- here's half my summer in pics.

First- this was my one and only Hex fish. Tom Hazelton took the picture. I felt so guilty- I was trying to get him into a fish like this, but he kept insisting on taking turns. If you look close you can just make out the trees back-lit by lightning.

This was another fish with Tom, only he was two reefs away, and I had to shoot it myself.

I've fished brook trout with Alex Cerveniak and on my own, and I've made my way back to my flats and found fish galore. Never the ones I'm seeking, but always something to keep it interesting.

I have bass finger. Bad. Don't ever stick your finger in a bass' es is es es' mouth. I have these purple bruises where healthy skin should be, as if they start digesting those gobies the moment they strike. I'm serious- the skin is rough, and I have been in pain all day. Okay, so I'm a wimp. A purple-fingered, sore-elbowed wimp. I love smallmouth.

I got up this morning and saw that a fresh edition of Wednesday Nibbles is up over at Troutrageous!. Yours truly got a mention in it over one of my bass pics I had posted to Facebook, so Mike Agneta, this one is for you-

"ya, I am a sumo bass"

What should you expect here at Fontinalis Rising? Well, I have on tap an interview of guide Kelly Neuman along with some streamers to give away, and I have a review of Redington's Sonic Pro Zip-Front waders. Yes I like them, and I have more stuff to give away then. If you like my creative work, then check out the Green Issue of Blood Knot, and I have to say that I posted this hastily to have some fresh material up, as I have an article being featured on MidCurrent today. I think it's my best piece ever, so be sure and check it out. It will be in today's newsletter.

Okay, the carafe is empty and it's time to go to work. Have a great week.

Beaver Island Fever

It's kind of like beaver fever, but with more fish and less dysentery.  I would think by now that most of you have at least heard of Beaver Island. After all, it has been heralded and high-lighted by such luminaries as Kirk Deeter and Tim Romano of Field and Stream in last years "Operation Michigan Tropical" and this last week by Cameron Mortenson of The Fiberglass Manifesto. His first fish, by the way, weighed 34 pounds.

As I write this, Dave Hosler of Pile Cast and Ethan Smith of SmithFly are on Beaver Island. Dave is fishing with Indigo Guide Service this weekend, and Ethan will be fishing with them Monday and Tuesday. Ethan has invited me to join him on Tuesday. I am so stoked it is difficult to sit here and type.

Why Beaver Island? What makes it so special.  First of all, it is an end-of-the-road destination. It takes effort to get there. It takes more than an hour to get from any freeway to Charlevoix. Charlevoix is at least 4 hours from any major metro area. Once there you either have to hop a plane or take the ferry. Once you get to Beaver Island, you are surrounded by miles of open water, white sand beaches, clattering terns and screeching gulls, and not much else.  If you really, REALLY want to get away from it all, head for Beaver Island.

Secondly, it has a really strange history, complete with a Mormon monarchy and subsequent uprising, assassination and exodus, a lawless period, the Irish influx followed by the death of the fishing and timber industries which resulted in the current and very quiet population of about 600.  Scientists today study the bird populations of the outer islands in the archipelago, as well as the smallmouth bass. I have caught some of their tagged fish in my home waters.

my success so far

Why would anyone travel to Beaver Island to fish for carp? First of all, we fly anglers need to stop turning our noses up at fish. Mike Agneta of Troutrageous! took a shot at carp recently. He was joking, kinda.  It's not just that carp are large- they are, but they are also finicky, easily spooked, line shy, and super sensitive to sounds and vibrations.  Once hooked they can easily clean out your reel, dust its shelves and tell you that you need to stock up on tissue. Fly anglers who are easily impressed by a 10 inch brook trout should not turn up their noses at ten pound carp. Most fly anglers will fish their entire lives without needing a drag. Unless they fish for carp, in which case it had better work, they had better know their knots, they had better know how to double-haul into a 25 knot breeze, and they had better know how much an 8 pound tippet can take. (At this point I don't think it should be called tippet, just tip)

So, I'm off to Beaver Island.  The Mormons have all left for the South Pacific. Kirk Deeter went to wherever he goes. Cameron Mortenson is safely back in South Carolina. Dave Hosler will be there, as will Ethan Smith, Kevin Morlock, and my friend Steve Martinez. It will be kick-ass no matter what. It will be dirtbag- I'll be sleeping on a couch, in a trailer, on an island, in Lake Michigan, in the Midwest, in North America, on planet Earth, in the Universe, The Mind of God. It will be perfect.

Monday Morning Coffee- June 18

Yawn, stretch, scratch, repeat.  It's Monday again. Let's have some coffee.

I know, I haven't shared Monday Morning Coffee with you in quite awhile. I hate posting when I don't have anything to say.  I've been working seven days a week and evenings for quite awhile, which cuts into my fishing and my writing time.

Not that I haven't been writing. As a matter of fact, this last week has been a big one for yours truly, with pieces being published in The Cedar Sweeper and MidCurrent with another due to drop in Blood Knot any day now. I'm a member of the Boyne Writer's Circle, part of the Boyne Arts Collective, and we've self-published an anthology called "Voices from the Boyne" on Lulu. If you have some strange itch to see my words in a book you can follow the link and order one, or you can order a signed copy from me- just shoot an email to fontinalisrising@gmail.com. I'll warn you that I only have two pieces in the book, and they both were published on this blog, but hey, whatever you like.

Lake Michigan sunset

Not that I haven't been fishing either. My boss invited me out fishing with him one evening, so we trolled around for walleye on a perfect evening. We caught 4 and lost six I think, which seemed a tad excessive, but planer boards can be tricky. After work a week ago Saturday I went and fished my flats for carp. An old timer coming in from a day of bass fishing told me he hadn't seen a carp, but had landed 27 bass. The parking lot was full, so I hiked well past the first access, and when I hit the water there was only one other fisherman in sight. I landed a handful of smallmouth, and saw a couple of pigs. The wind blew so hard that most of my casts were 40 feet or less, but I did manage to roll my casts out instead of them landing in a heap on the water. Progress. Late in the day I was casting to some dark rocks, when one of them turned and followed my fly- it was an enormous carp, and after that I "saw" them- hundreds of carp milling around me. Some were there spawning, as told by the frenetic activity and the jumping, but some were nosing along the bottom, or even feeding competitively.  They would maddeningly follow my fly right to me, then spook when they got ten feet out from me.  I cast to these fish for two hours. As the evening wore on, and I changed positions, the feeding activity seemed to pick up. Finally, a competitive school of fish came by when I had my fly in the right place.  In the midst of my achingly slow retrieve, my line stopped, I pulled, and nothing happened. I pulled harder, and my line went streaking off.  In a school of fish that averaged about 20 pounds I had managed to hook an 8 pounder, but even small carp fight hard, and this one took most of my fly line faster than it takes to write about. I quit soon after this, as the sun was dipping to the horizon and a bloody sunset over Lake Michigan. I got as lost as one can be in an open marsh on a peninsula, with a chorus of black birds scolding me in the golden light. Two bald eagles came to check me out and escort me from their domain. It was a perfect outing.

carp from last week

If you're wanting to fish, or are visiting Michigan, the word is everything is hot right now. We're in the midst of the Hex hatch, which means night fishing for trout is where it's at, and you have the chance at a real dinger on a dry fly right now.  The down-side is that daytime fishing will be marginal.  If you can't fish at night, try the smaller streams for brook trout.  The bass fishing on all the lakes is red-hot and this is prime time for catching bluegills on foam spiders. White is the best color followed by black. The carp are inshore on all of the flats areas- Traverse Bay, Wilderness State Park, and Beaver Island- and offer some exciting sight fishing.

Tom with a Northern Michigan brookie

I spent this weekend fishing with Tom Hazelton, who was up on his own dirt bag fishing adventure.  Tom works for Scientific Anglers and is an all around good guy.. We tried to fish the Hex hatch before the storm blew us off the water. We got a couple of fish in the twenty  minutes we had, then went back to our campsite and slept through a long, windy and stormy night.  My tent leaked and fortunately my sleeping bag is warm when wet. We fished for brook trout, smallmouth and carp yesterday and did okay. His visit is probably a post in itself. I had a great time with Tom and hope he'll come again soon. Tom- your single days are numbered so you'd better get some fishing in this summer.

Well, I have to run out the door. Have a great week, and if you can, get out on the water.

Let's get after it.

Good Takes- Lou Burhart of Brack Hill Tackle

I first "met" Lou the same way I've met a lot of people in the fly fishing world- through Facebook. He would comment on my pictures and posts occasionally. I found out he would be at the Midwest Fly Fishing Expo as an exhibitor as he is the proprietor of Brack Hill Tackle, builder of fine bamboo rods. I was delighted when he insisted that I cast some of his rods.

Lou is a tall gentleman with a grandfatherly demeanor, and a quiet, almost self-effacing manner. I met him in person Friday night at the hospitality dinner, but it was the next day during this interview and while casting his rods that he really opened up.  Lou is very knowledgeable about bamboo, and he quickly took my knowledge on the subject from zero to, well, something.  I could have listened to him talk about bamboo rods and fly fishing all day, as he has some great tales to tell.


When I asked him my questions he became serious and I got a quick tutorial on bamboo.  I should warn you that I screwed up and cut off the recording of the first question.  I had asked him something like "why bamboo" and Lou explained to me the satisfaction of starting with a single culm of bamboo, and lovingly forming a rod out of it.  The rest of the interview went as follows:

FR: Is it builder or maker?

LB: It’s a subtle difference, but some folks seem to care.  I’m a lot more casual.  You can call me what you want, just don’t call me late for dinner.  Many bamboo folks prefer to be called "Makers".

FR: Okay.  Bamboo is a great traditional material, what do you think is its allure?

LB:  The million dollar question- why would anyone want a bamboo rod, and I don’t think anyone has the right answer.  For me it’s just that I’m literally starting from scratch.  You adjust the size of the bamboo strips, which determines the action of the rod, how it feels in casting.  They’re never going to be the ultra-high line speed, double-haul saltwater monsters that the new rod makers are selling.  If you notice, a lot more rods are coming through as medium actions and slower actions, traditional actions.  That’s the kind of feel you get with a bamboo rod you know.  Some of them can be pretty quick, pretty fast action for a bamboo rod.  They’re all a lot smoother, a lot more comfortable, and in my opinion they certainly are a lot prettier than a green or a black or gray rod.  It’s handmade, something that every owner can say “somebody  made this just for me”. That’s worth something too, some people care about that kind of stuff.  For me it’s just doing it myself.  You’ve got the planes and scrapers, the glue and the varnish and the silk.  When you’re done you go fishing.  It’s a beautiful thing.

a selection from the "Mainstream" series

FR:  How long have you been building?

LB:  I finished my first rod in 1998. I worked with Wayne Cattanach. Wayne lives over by Casnovia, and has been building rods and writing books about it for a long time.  He was nice enough to spend a few weekends with me, stretched across 4, 5, 6 months, to get the first one done, and I’ve been on my own ever since.  I’m coming up on rod number 100.  I’ll probably hit that next spring, or maybe the fall, depending on how many I build this winter still.  So I’ve got them all over the place.  I’ve got them in Ohio, Pennsylvania, Georgia, Austria, Alaska, a couple in Montana, a couple in Colorado.  They’re kind of scattered around.  A lot of them in Michigan obviously.

FR: So what do you say to the novice who is curious about bamboo?

LB:  The first question I ask is “What kind of fishing do you like to do?  What kind of river do you like to fish on?”  That puts us in the right neighborhood.  A little spring creek?  A lot of folks like chasing brook trout on the North Branch (Au Sable) or little creeks.  I’ve got a lot of 6 foot, 6’3”, 7’ rods that are great for dry flies, ants and little grasshoppers for brook trout.  That’s a party.  I go all the way up to spey rods.  I’ve got a ten foot "switch", and a twelve foot spey rod.  It throws 600 grains, a lot of T-14 if you want to swing big streamers.  Personally I like to swing traditional spey flies, traditional hair-wings and stuff.  I’ll still put on some sort of gaudy-ass thing if that’s what it takes to trick a steelhead.  The old saying is “the tug is the drug”, once you get that feeling it’s painful.  I frequently go out fishing in Montana, so I’ve got 8 foot,  6 weight rods that I fish out of drift boats on the Madison and the Yellowstone, you know, throwing  big ugly,  nasty nymphs, but you still can’t beat the dry fly.  A float on the Madison when the fish are up eating PMD’s is the best you can do, you know.

FR:  I am supposed to test and write about a custom built bamboo rod, so what advice do you have for me?  What do I need to do so I don’t thrash this thing?

LB:  The biggest piece of advice I can give is the outlook.  The standard advice for all casting is “relax”.  Let the rod do the work.  The harder you try the worse the results are likely to be.  Relax, let the rod work, get a nice gentle tempo that will flex that rod and load it, and it will usually take care of itself, and make you happy.  And look at it too, you’ve got a pretty piece of hardware you’re holding.  Appreciate that someone made that.  It started out in China, in some forest in China a year or two ago and now here you are.  Relax, slow down and let the rod do the work and you’ll be happy.

FR:  I appreciate you spending the time with me and explaining a few things, and I look forward to casting your rods.

Cast his rods I did.  Lou had me cast several.  He had me cast two 5 weights side by side to see the difference in taper.  I fell in love with the one- it casts 50 feet of line without effort, and the feel and flex of the rod was sublime.  Lou's rods range from the very affordable "North Branch" series to  models offering a wide variety of custom touches tailored to your taste for a one of a kind rod. His rods truly are a work of art with the kind of custom touches you expect, such as rare wood reel seats and agate stripping guides.  I'm grateful I had the chance to see and cast them.  

speckled jasper stripping guide with Claret silk wrappings

Lou has a very nice website for Brack Hill Tackle, with great product pictures, information on various local events including rods he contributes, as well as biographical information. Don't miss the photo tour of his shop, which details the rod-building process. Make sure you check it all out at:

http://www.brackhilltackle.com/

You can also like his Facebook page at

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Brack-Hill-Tackle-Fine-Split-Bamboo-Fly-Rods/68249711017