The Angler's Culvert

From the Vault: Anadromy

2012-03-02T08:28:00.000-05:00

Herring are already showing up on the Cape, and this event reminded me of young Brayshaw's very first article on The Angler's Culvert. It's been a number* of years since these early works, and I wanted to recount this one, about the cycle and about herring. I'm sure readers will agree -- it's a bobby dazzler.

Herring Fly

*Exactly 2.

The Dross From Last Year Post

2012-02-27T20:55:00.000-05:00

A Valuable How-To Guide About Fetching Wood.

We are beasties too (The Annual February Post)

2012-02-18T20:56:00.002-05:00

Crocus are well on their way. Things are photosynthesizing. I have a cold but even in mid-February - this mid-February - I'm suspecting pollen. Last year we were under 3' of snow. I was hard at it with a chisel and the snow blower saved my job and physical wellness. In 2012 it's already spring in Connecticut. Forsythia is green and ready. It was warm enough today that Bill and I are contemplating kayaking tomorrow, a whole month before the frogs and some weeks (I ~~bury~~ forget the exact date) before ya'll get too excited about having celtic roots. We won't go, but that's not the point.

I'm not from here. I'm from over there, where the grass is green in winter. So just trust me that this is all quite weird - last year, then this year. Today I imagined that most beasties, like plants, are starting up early, encouraged by the warming trend; or at least they're confused, like me. I wonder if the Beasties on Hudson and those hundreds of miles south are thinking the same thing, and thinking of setting out early.

Like the man said, the seasons really are an endless distraction. At least, this is what I was thinking in the loop of 2nd grade basketball, Stop and Shop, the dump and the wine store today.

Jonny

The Early Years

2012-02-08T10:30:00.000-05:00

As we get older our memories of childhood inevitably fade, so it's really special to unearth the original footage of that very first moment when I realized that *my musical collaboration with TJ Brayshaw was destined to evolve into what it has become today.

Please enjoy this special film.

*We're not fit to clean the boots of these fantastic players.Brothers Jonny Mizzone age 9 on banjo, Robbie Mizzone age 12 on fiddle, and Tommy Mizzone age 14 on guitar. Jonny is playing a Huber Vintage VRB-75 Banjo. The fact his name is Jonny is a coincidence.

(Please don't) Take me to your leader.

2012-02-04T22:03:00.001-05:00

It's sometimes fun to ponder what Mozart, or others of his ilk, would think of the music of, say, Led Zeppelin or Muddy Waters, or even English Jonny and T.J. Brayshaw. What I suspect, in at least two of these cases, is that he would at the very least recognize it as music. He might even like it.

It's baffling to me, then, that folks who all might be lumped under the label of "fishermen" could have such different ideas about what fishing is, or at least ought to be. Recently, in my internet travels, I came upon two different discussions that gave me pause for some reflection. In most ways, they have very little in common, with the exception of two things. First, both have something to do with fishing (If I'm feeling generous. Let's just say, they have to do with fish.) Second, my reaction to both was the same, which is to say immediate, visceral, and negative. I thought about this afterwards, particularly about why my reaction was so negative and whether this was even fair. In the end, I think I'm more confused than disturbed.

The first had to do with a well-known tarpon tournament that occurs each year in Florida's Boca Grande Pass. Large numbers of very big tarpon pass through here, and absurdly large numbers of anglers gather to catch them. This isn't the backcountry, flats fishing some of you might be familiar with, because here the water is too deep to fly fish (or even sight fish) for the tarpon. Instead, the competitors jig the fish up from the depths. The entire scene is borderline chaos, and many believe that the numbers of anglers, the fishing techniques, and the fish-handling practices are unnecessarily hard on the fish, such that mortality of these fish far exceeds what many tarpon anglers would consider acceptable. It's hard to watch video of this event and not suspect the same. A fellow on The Drake's message board was roped into fishing "The Pass" with his boss, and describes the episode this way: "Sure, we hooked fish, quite a few in fact. Got four to the boat, lost two of them to sharks. I don't know if they were particularly thick that day, but I'd say about a third of the poons met "Jaws" from what I could see. For the guys on my boat, that was particularly cool. We broke off a few times weaving in and out of the amateurs who "didn't know how to fish the pass" as my guide told them. I enjoyed a few of the "What the fuck are you doing?", "Move your fucking boat, don't you know what you're fuckin' doing?" that were exchanged between boats that are all of a few feet apart at times."

Hold your thoughts for a moment, please.

The second discussion came from a local fishing board, and had to do with a fellow's account of a large musky he accidentally snagged while fishing. He acknowledged that the fish was snagged (in the tail), and released the fish after landing it. These things happen. My immediate, visceral and negative reaction was to what followed his account of the event. After describing the long fight, the fisherman described why he decided to go home, rather than continue to fish: "It doesn't get any better than this!!"

It seems there was simply no improving upon this fishing experience. In any event, he was then warmly congratulated by several other fishermen for a "Great catch!!", and several also congratulated him for releasing the tail-snagged musky.

This angler released the musky, and I suspect little harm was done. I don't know the effects of the Boca Grande Pass tarpon tournament on those tarpon, but let's assume for the moment that it has little if any negative effects on the tarpon. My gut reaction is to be deeply offended by the tarpon tournament on many levels, but perhaps this isn't fair. The fact that it doesn't appeal to me doesn't necessarily mean that it's distasteful. What has me so distressed is that I am at a complete loss to understand what is going on in the heads of any of these fishermen. I am thoroughly confused as to why anybody would want to participate in that circus.

And the musky snagger? He can't imagine anything better than snagging a gamefish by the tail? Nothing? Nothing at all? To try to get a fish to actually take a lure would be, I guess, anticlimactic. Hit a pheasant with your car while driving down the highway? The same as a great quartering-away wingshot, apparently. Fucking a corpse? "Best sex I can possibly imagine!!"

And what of those who congratulated him? I was particularly bemused by those who congratulated him for releasing the snagged fish, as if he deserves extra accolades for doing what is so clearly the only proper option. Jonny recently congratulated me on my ten-year wedding anniversary, but he never bothered to also congratulate me for not beating my wife or fucking the babysitter.

It makes me wonder if, despite that we all call ourselves "fisherman", we're even from the same planet. My first thought, upon meeting some of these folks, might be to instruct them to "Take me to your leader", but I suspect even mastermind behind this colony of alien fishermen wouldn't be able to make me understand.

Most Peculiar Mama

2012-02-01T22:23:00.000-05:00

This

It was 55 deg on the CT shoreline today

Led me to get excited, which led to these

Which led me to throw up when I received this.

Strange days indeed.

Jonny

I Love Thee Like A Carp

2012-01-20T23:28:00.002-05:00

Not to be outdone by the tender words of the lovely Erin Block, we note that Zakur and Quill have been waxing their lyrics these past few days. Bravo! Well, be damned, if our very own TJ Brayshaw hasn't sent me his poetry this fine evening. Inspired readers are encouraged to submit poems of their own, and we'll select a winner based on our own criteria of what the best shit is.

Fuck Steelhead

It matters not the fly I have chosen

Since the rivers are blown out or are all frozen

And so I admit

Once I've finished my fit:

With large steehead I'll not be posin'

I Love Thee Like a Carp

With these carp I feel a connection

Those lips give me cause for reflection

I can't get enough

Of that scaly stuff

Is it wrong that I have an erection?

Not Fishing on Sunday

My double haul's perfect, my mending inspired

The backing is fresh, the guide has been hired

I work late on Friday, lest I get fired

In housework the next day, I'm totally mired

Now Sunday is here... but I'm too fucking tired.

The Novice

Your passion is real, your commitment sincere

You've learned how to tie, you've got all the gear

But please don't forget

That your ears are still wet

Since you've fly fished for what? Just one fucking year!

Old English, up a tree again.

The Guy We All Know

The jacket is "Simms", it fits like a tux

Your Charlton reel costs twelve-hundred bucks

Yet despite all that money

(It's really quite funny)

You don't even realize: your casting still sucks

English Jonny

There once was a fellow from Guilford
Who fished from Rhode Island to Milford
At night he would go
Where the Culvert doth flow
This time from his family, he pilfered.

Adopt a Culvert!

2012-01-18T13:32:00.000-05:00

With great excitement we announce that The Culvert has received national recognition from Orvis and Trout Unlimited! Readers will agree that A healthy Culvert is a Healthy World. So we are delighted to commend these efforts and encourage you all to join this worthwhile initiative, for the good of an Angler's Culvert near you.

Eventually, all things merge into one, and a Culvert runs through it.

His Class 1: A Plog

2012-01-16T20:22:00.001-05:00

The quandary was answered by the forecast of -3 overnight and single digits through Monday in Pulaski. I took Heaven and left Steve and Bob to Hell, where they hooked and lost 2 and 1 steelhead, respectively; a typical return for January. And so to Heaven - The Mill River in Easton, CT. A Class 1 Wild Trout Stream that was every bit as tough as it was meant to be this time of year. In May these streams are jumping with their designated "abundant wild trout". In January they're black and cold, but mighty pretty.

This being the stream where The Great Man plied his angle, I won't compete with words. Besides, I'm completely shagged out in that wonderful way I always feel after a day on a winter trout stream.

First act. The heads tell you I hadn't had coffee yet.

Wet dogs came along for the ride, this day.

The Handsome Modern Angler. I spelled it right because my wife is standing here correcting me.

Pretty water on the ol' Mill.

It was so cold.


My net took a stiffy. I wondered in a non-existent, whimsical way how cold Steve and Bob must be	.

Highland Park isn't litter. And I wasn't fishing the Usk.

Highland Park II.

One fish dropped before lunch, and back to the Sube for tucker with the dogs and more Highland Park.

I'm surprised I could see. A bloody good Brookie from a Class 1 "Black Diamond" in January.

Nothing prettier swims.

My favorite size of trout stream. Medium.

Nurturing the Dalvey.

A sort of Highland Park.

Happy Birthday? I should co-co.

Jonny

A day on the water

2012-01-14T19:40:00.003-05:00

It was sunny and in the low 20s 10 days ago. It was 55 and sunny eight days ago, so Seth and I fished. Now, it's in the low 20s again.

Brayshaw reties his leader....again.

Seth

Bass fishermen lip bass. Apparently, trout fishermen do not.

Seth

Late sun

Even later sun

The strange case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde

2012-01-11T12:17:00.002-05:00

Next Monday I can drive a 12 hour round trip to stand in 22 degree snow-filled air for a waffer thin chance that I might hook and lose a single steelhead. This pittance we'll call a good day, and for a while, perhaps enough time to carry me half-way home, the drug will keep me "up". The iced guides and sweaty neoprenes will just have to be. I'll have hand and feet warmers provided I remember to add them to the long list of shit my life will depend on in frozen hell. Bring on the combat with other anglers for the right to chuck'n’ duck - rinse, repeat, rinse, repeat, ex creta, ex creta, ad infinitum - through the precious few holes where a steelhead might lie this time of year on the upper reaches of the Salmon River, Pulaski. If I take a single pee break during the only five minutes the fish are biting, I will certainly hook nothing and I just don’t know how to work this out. Highway burgers and the feeling of less than good, wholesome, fly-fishing fun. Gas. More gas. Expenses. Physical fatigue for the following two weeks will compete with a persuasive clinical low for my selection of medication. I'll recall the first few months of my first born child (in lucid moments I can do this voluntarily) and the painful memories that I know, with certain fear, will be magically obscured as my genetics compel me to do this again and again. Rinse, repeat.

Hell, on a mild day.

Or, I can tootle merrily along in the style of Ms. Marple (I drive an old Subaru wagon) to a wild brook trout stream and fish the warmer CT woods. Very pretty. Secluded. A good chance I'll bring a fish or three to hand, this day. They will be laughingly small in a very respectful way; and they will be wild and small, so I'll cast myself as the dandy Artisan that I really am. I'll luncheon on home-prepared fare and soda pop - I'm so cozy in my car I'll take humorous picnic pictures for future publication! The cost will be nothing more than the price of a delicious stoagie, the white smoke from which I see now, wafting Prozekly on the silent winter air as I give brief pause to dry my No.12 Dave's Hopper and presently greet the bluebird that has just settled on my left wading boot. It will be lovely and I'll return home, accomplished, in time for tea with my radiant wife and beautiful children.

Heaven

Split-shot: check.
Stanley's ice-off paste: check.
Hand-warmers: check

......I'll see you in Hell.

Jonny

Steelhead Season: Gear Review, No. 7

2012-01-09T22:10:00.005-05:00

Like much of the country, we've had an incredibly mild winter so far, so whereas in a normal year the steelhead fishing right now might be nonexistent, this year is different. As such, this is a goodtime for another unbiased product review geared toward the steelhead fisherman. I am qualified to perform this review.

Today, we review the G.Loomis 9 foot, 9 inch 8 weight GL3 fly rod case.

My small children jump on and off of the couch, despite that it angers me. Yesterday, I flipped the couch over. Of the fourteen springs under my couch, only five still remain attached. As a result, when one sits on the couch, that sinking sensation is real: you will be hard-pressed to get up without assistance, no matter how physically fit you are. It seemed that reattaching the springs would not be simple, and with my limited tool kit, essentially impossible.

And so, I cleverly used two nylon tie-down straps to secure the G.Loomis 9 foot, 9 inch 8 weight GL3 fly rod case into place, essentially holding the broken springs against the underside of the couch, where they belong. The fly rod that is normally housed in that G.Loomis 9 foot, 9 inch 8 weight GL3 fly rod case is a two-piece fly rod; hence, this particular rod case is the only one I own that is long enough to accomplish this task.

Despite my optimism upon completing this task, we cannot give the G.Loomis 9 foot, 9 inch 8 weight GL3 fly rod case a perfect review because, despite a clearly noticeable improvement, the couch does not feel "like new".

Also, my five-year-old jumped off of the somewhat springier couch and landed on my G.Loomis 9 foot, 9 inch 8 weight GL3 fly rod, which was no longer in its case, thus snapping the rod cleanly.

Fly Fishing: A Modern Film

2012-01-08T17:05:00.004-05:00

Brayshaw wins "Slurp" magazine's Film Festival Prize

Making love in a canoe

2012-01-06T12:26:00.000-05:00

Here is an American Beer Menu [sic]. It has not been Photoshopped, but is an authentic beer menu from the otherwise entirely despicable River House Restaurant, Pulaski, NY (which you should check out if paying lots of money for dreadful service of really bad food is your thing). As your eyes testify, the list contains nae beer. The 23 lagers it contains are so similar you won't notice one from t'other, but care not friends; because they are all very poor. My mother-in-law said that they taste a lot like making love in a canoe. Not what a son-in-law most wants to hear, but she is right.

American "Beer"

noun / beer/bi(ə)r/

An alcoholic beverage usually made from malted cereal grain (as barley), flavored with hops, and brewed by slow fermentation.

noun / lager/ ˈlägər/ 

Originally a German beer, effervescent and light in color and body, now made in immense quantities in the United States. A lot like making love in a canoe.

If fucking close to water is really your thing, I suggest you buy an actual canoe. Sport Billy has a really nice one for sale at a rather good price. In the meantime, do consider visiting Scotland, where real hospitality - and real ale - awaits!

Carry on.

Jonny

I got to walk in the woods, fish, and drink

2012-01-02T21:11:00.000-05:00

This flask is Scottish, much like English Jonny. The whiskey was American, like Brayshaw.

Says Jonny: “Ultimately, it's surprising that you were the only person fooling around videoing yourself on a riverbank. What do the millions of others do?”

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I asked my wife if she thought I should start drinking more, and she said "Are you joking?" She even suggested I might consider drinking less. But, she's my wife, and of course she's going to say that. She doesn't want to hurt my feelings. But I do think that once she sees the new, drunker me, she'll probably say something like "Well, I didn't want to make you feel bad, in case you failed, but Honey, I am so proud of you."

Ice was a problem.

I don't know. (And I was there.)

Redds, Southern-Style

2011-12-23T08:49:00.000-05:00

Until recently, I never gave much thought, either way, to fishing over redds. A redd (pronounced “reh-du-du”, I guess) is that hollow depression in the river bottom made by a spawning trout or salmon where later the eggs will be laid and subsequently fertilized. Recently, Gary pointed out the irony inherent in Great Lakes steelheaders, i.e. that they violently oppose fishing over steelhead redds, despite that steelhead are not native to the Great Lakes, and in most cases, no natural reproduction occurs anyway. Well, the truth is that, as far as I can tell, most Lake Erie steelheaders have no such qualms about fishing over redds, or about anything, for that matter. For example, on my last trip, I watched an angler snag all of these fish from one very small pool. Lacking a stringer, he simply threaded a nylon tie-down strap through their gills, and then placed them in this puddle to keep them alive.

Good eats

And this brings me to today’s recipe, just in time for the holidays. This recipe is courtesy of Ironic Gary, as he is known, and I have to admit, it’s a real winner. I was skeptical, initially, but this has become a staple in the Brayshaw household.

You can adjust the batter to suit your tastes, but it is absolutely essential that you keep the redds very cold until they’re dipped in the batter. This helps the batter to stick to the redd. Fortunately, the redds are naturally cold, since steelhead, trout and salmon are cold-water fish. In addition, the recipe’s proportions can be adjusted to accommodate brook trout redds, which are usually much smaller than steelhead redds. (In fact, at home we sometimes simply sauté a batch of brook trout redds in a stove-top skillet, thus obviating the need for a deep fryer altogether.)

• 6 steelhead redds (trout, salmon redds may be substituted)

• 1/2 cup evaporated milk

• 1 tablespoon salt

• dash pepper

• 1 cup flour

• 1/2 cup yellow cornmeal

• 2 teaspoons paprika

• Deep fryer, with oil

Clean, wash and dry the redds. It is essential to keep the redds very cold if the batter is going to stick to them. Combine milk, salt and pepper in a bowl. In a pie plate or shallow dish, combine flour, cornmeal and paprika. Dip redds in milk mixture then roll in flour and cornmeal mixture. Fry redds in hot oil for about 4 minutes. Test carefully with a fork or felt-studded wader boot and fry for 4 to 6 minutes longer, or until the redds flake easily with a fork and are browned. Drain on paper towels. Serve with bacon and hush puppies and coleslaw, if desired. Serves 6.

Carefully lower the battered redds into the fryer

Medium Falutin

2011-12-15T22:31:00.006-05:00

It's a trout

The problem I’ve long had with trout isn’t really fair to trout. Little pale-colored stocked rainbows don’t represent all trout, but they’ve sort of clouded my impression of trout anyway, much the way that my ex-girlfriend Sharon clouds my vision of crazy women. Just as I know there are great crazy women, I know there are some great trout. The problem is that stockies have few, if any, of the attributes of a desirable fly fishing quarry. As I see it, the perfect fish is beautiful, lives in places where I want to fish, gets to a respectable size, fights well, is wild and is native to where I’m fishing for it. Now, before you start screaming “But you’re a carp fisherman!!”, let me make clear that what I’ve just described is a perfect fish. A perfect fish scores high in all categories. In fact, we can quantify the score in units I call falutins. If you want to fish for a high falutin Atlantic salmon, get yourself to the Gaspe. Or head to Key West for some high falutin tarpon.

Most of us, most of the time, must settle for fish that are not perfect, but are perfectly respectable. Carp, for example, while not native, are big and strong, wild and wildly attractive, and live in lovely places. Up until recently, the only accessible trout that didn’t make my bowels churn were Great Lakes steelhead. They’re not native to my region, and the ones I’ve caught didn’t fight well, but I’ve heard they’re capable of fighting well. Their other attributes are evident. And, they’re sort of wild. When I first developed my falutin scale, I only allowed a fish to get a “Yea” or a “Nay”. But these steelhead, though hatched in a hatchery, then go on to spend their formative years living legitimately. I now give partial credit.

And this brings us to yesterday’s fishing. Right now, cold-water fish are really the only game in town. Seth, also a dyed-in-the-wool warm water fly fisherman, suggested a trip for stocked browns (trout, that is). My gut reaction was negative, but it turns out that our local browns, while clearly non-native and also stocked, are stocked as youngins but, because of cold, spring-fed water, manage to holdover for multiple seasons. As such, they are, I am not too proud to admit, perfectly respectable medium falutin fish.

Seth drifts...

And hooks up.

Medium falutin

The Musky Man, part II

2011-12-11T13:30:00.005-05:00

A few days ago, I put up a post about my grandfather and the large musky he caught years ago. If you have not yet read that one, I suggest you do, as it will put the following post in context. Here, my father, Grandpa's son, provides more details about the musky, and about the Musky Man. Thanks, Dad.

Brayshaw, Sr. recounts...

Since T.J. had promised you that that I would soon add some details about the Great Fish and its catching, I will keep his promise for him. I loved his tribute to his Grandpa as much as most of the rest of you did, but since he wasn't living in that era when the events occurred, and I was, I'll try to truthfully embellish that event and also add some stuff that relates to other issues that T.J. mentioned.

First, about cussin' in general and specifically about cussin' in front of adults, women, girls and children. Dad (“Grandpa” to T.J.) enlisted in the Navy very shortly after that Date Which Will Live in Infamy and he was in the Navy until the end of the war. In later years when I came to know him better, I quickly learned that somewhere, sometime he had come to know and to practice “swearing like a drunken sailor”. During my entire life, I never saw him drunk, but he could swear like a sailor any time he needed to, and he frequently needed to. In further defense of his character, I will add that I have no memory of his ever having intentionally sworn in the presence of a woman or girl, and I have no memory of his ever having sworn at another human being. He wasn't even into calling people names, even if he was angry. Now I don't really know why he was so reserved about cussin' under such circumstances, but I have a theory. I think he just didn't need to, because he had such a personal and satisfying relationship with the tools of his trade and the tools of his hobbies.

When I was very young, the family bought a small farm with an old semi-modern farm house and a few unfenced acres on a narrow and very deep tract of land. The house needed better indoor plumbing and the land needed perimeter fencing to hold a little bit of livestock. Dad, being a plumber by trade and a true hardworking handy-man decided that he would tackle it all and do it himself. He had all of the tools and he had a personal relationship with all of them. Once I was grown enough to serve as an inept go-fer, I got to be around him a lot while he was working with his tool friends, and you should have heard how he talked to them. That's when I learned that an adult male didn't have to watch out for cussin' around young male offspring. If a tool that he was using didn't do its job exactly as it was created to perform the job, you could expect it to get cussed at, lividly. Wrenches, saws, chisels, hammers and nails and fence staples regularly were called by their first, middle and last names, and sometimes by their professions. I was surprised by how many tools were “filthy whores” and “ worthless son-of-a bitches” and “fucking assholes”. I kept my cussin' mouth shut for years. It would have been too hard to get a word in edgewise. But I learned. 

In the late 1950s, when I was about 12 years old, my older cousin Ralph persuaded Dad and me to go fishing with him in Canada about 70 miles north of International Falls, MN, at the lower end of Lake of the Woods. We fished there for years almost each July, (the month following the closed season for taking muskies), but for some years, we clung to the smaller adjoining lakes because Lake of the Woods is one “big fucking place” (Dad's description) with thousands of islands that, to us, all looked the same, and we didn't want to get lost. Finally the lure of the bigger fish in that “big fucking place” got the better of us and we started fishing there with a professional guide. The guide pictured with Dad in one of the musky pictures, “John”, was one of the best. We fished with him or with his brother Mike for years, and they both learned that we were after BIG fish, not fish that we could catch oursselves, without his knowledge of when and how to find them, and still find our way back to camp.

One July, in a year that I had forgot, on a chilly, windy, bright morning, we boated up with John and he told us that we were in for a longer boat ride than we were used to because he was taking us to “Stoney” Bay, called Big Stone Bay by some. On the way into Stoney, John pointed out a small protected bay sheltered by a 50 yard long rocky peninsula, and in the back of the bay, along the shore, was a quaint little sandy beach about 20 yards wide. The water was about 15 feet deep ending up very shallow just off the beach. Cabbage weeds were growing submerged about 18” to 24'” below the surface. John told us that he and his brother more than once had moved a very big musky in the pool just off that beach, but the fish wouldn't take on bright days. He promised that we would stop on the way back if clouds moved in and the sun was lowering. We fished away the rest of the day, raised a few medium sized muskies, but we boated a lot of nice northerns.  

Brayshaw Sr. on leftt, Guide John center, Grandpa at right

The sun was lowering and the clouds had moved in, and so we went after the Great Fish. As we always liked to do when fishing over submerged weeds, we tied on large musky-sized artificials that we could run either slightly below the surface or on top. If you've never met one of those “fucking Musky Hawks” (a fish-catching tool), let me describe one. The one Dad tied on was about 8-9 inches long, with a black bushy bucktail hiding a large treble hook and a lead weight, ahead of the bucktail was a band of red saddle hackles, and at the front was a large double spinner that moved a lot of water. To fish one of those things and to keep it on the surface, the instant it hit the water at the end of your cast, you had to sweep up the tip of the rod to keep the Hawk from sinking and you had to start reeling FAST to keep it on top. I was tossing a very large Mepps with a tan bucktail at the rear.

Musky Hawk, by the Marathon Bait Company

 We started in deeper water and kept casting and raising Cain as John worked us closer to the beach. When we were about close enough to reach it, at the end of about an eighty foot cast, Dad's Hawk landed about 3 feet from the beach and he swept up his rod tip, and the spinning blade broke the surface, and started twirling and spattering water. At the same instant, there was a huge swirl in the water about 5 feet a way, the sign of a very large fish swapping ends. John yelled, “Don't take it away from him but don't slow down!” Within seconds we could see a trail in the water behind the Hawk that reminded me somewhat of the wake that a shallow running torpedo might make. The fish was closing, but by now the Hawk was only about 15 feet from the gunwale. Half that distance away from the boat, The Great Fish became visible just beneath the surface behind the Hawk, and she opened a mouth big enough to lose your hand in, swallowed the Hawk hole, and dived straight down under the boat. In an instant, she came out from under the boat and drove straight away, back in the direction of the beach. At a distance of about 20 feet, she came straight up out of the water and walked her entire length above the surface on her tail. Think for a moment of how long that short event might have lasted. Not very long. A shaking fish can't defy gravity for long. Well, no matter how long the instant might have lasted, during the instant, I was the only one to speak, and I had just enough time to say, “Jesus Fucking Christ!” So much for not cussin' in front of my Dad.   

The fight lasted a little more than half an hour. It would have been longer had the Great Fish not swallowed the Musky Hawk all the way down into her gills. John said that in all of his years up there, it was the longest musky he had ever boated. Fifty-two inches, by the way. She was a recently spawned-out female that he said would have been well over 40 pounds within another week or two. That's how it happened, as if it were yesterday. For years, the owners of the fishing resort where we stayed had a custom. Whenever one of their guests brought in a trophy musky, as a reminder to the guest of the date it happened, they gave the guest a new Canadian silver dollar, minted that year. I have that silver dollar. It all happened in July, 1966, just another yesterday 45 years ago.

The Musky Man

2011-12-07T15:05:00.003-05:00

The Musky Man with The Great Fish

I didn't catch the fish that is probably responsible for my infatuation with fishing. In fact, I didn't even see it get caught. Indeed, I hadn't even been born yet. But my fate was sealed, it seems, one summer day on Lake of the Woods, on the Minnesota/Canada border, back in the mid-1960s. The guide knew the big musky was there, but so far it had not been caught. Through what I now recognize must have involved at least some luck, the great fish inhaled my grandfather's big top-water Marathon Musky-Hawk spinner. Then, through what must have involved at least some skill, my grandfather landed this fish. Photos were taken at lunch on one of the rocky islands, and then again later at the dock. Then he called my grandmother to let her know he was bringing this one back home, to hang on the wall. "Like hell,", she replied, and so the great fish instead spent the next decade or so on Grandpa's office wall. Up to this point, I had only seen photographs, but upon his retirement, the fish finally came home, where it found a spot...in the garage.

First photo: Guide in the shirt, Grandpa in the jacket

At the dock, with my father

Grandpa's routine was largely the same every day: he woke up very early every morning, hours before sunrise, and headed straight for the nearby golf course. There, he fished the golf course ponds. He had been a plumber by trade, and had been clever enough to work out a deal with the pro: Grandpa would do any routine plumbing tasks that the pro shop required, in exchange for nothing other than permission to fish the ponds. The pro agreed, provided that Grandpa didn't interfere with the golfers. And so, his fishing routine was the same each morning. He'd start at the pond closest to the first hole. Shortly before sunrise, the first golfers would arrive. He knew that from the time he first saw headlights in the parking lot, he would have 19 more minutes of fishing at this pond before he had to move to the next. It didn't matter if the fishing was good - he had to move. But several of the course ponds fished well, and by staying just ahead of the first party, he could fish all of the ponds in rotation, until finally he was forced to gather his gear and leave. Then, home he went to clean his fish, change his clothes, and head back to the course...to golf.

I was fortunate enough to live close enough to my grandparents when I was a child that I could visit often, and when I did, my routine, too, did not vary. I would greet Grandpa, give Grandma a kiss, and head straight for the garage. There I would spend as much time as I could staring at the mounted musky, fantasizing about what it must have been like to catch that fish. For my entire childhood, I was convinced that this fish was the baddest-ass of all bad-ass fish, and of course it only logically followed that one would have to be quite the bad-ass fisherman to catch the most bad-ass of all fishes.

Grandpa, the Bad Ass (about age 16)

Grandpa and his pal, Louie, with a stringer of bass

And so, it was pretty exciting to me when I was finally old enough to go fishing with Grandpa. (I had, by this time, already spent considerable time fishing with my father - no slouch himself - but of course, it was Grandpa who had caught The Great Fish.) When I stayed with my grandparents, we almost always went to one of the local cafeterias the evening before for dinner. I doubt I could stomach the food now, but I recall at the time being pretty excited about the fact that when I reached the end of the line, right there before the cash register, I was face-to-face with The Desserts. The Desserts!! So many choices!! What to do!? I always got a piece of cherry pie.

Early the next morning, Grandpa would wake me up early and we'd skip breakfast, get into his yellow Malibu, and head for the golf course. It may be that my memory is hazy after 30 years, but I seem to recall some of the most fabulous largemouth bass fishing imaginable. Given that there were several of these ponds, and we had them entirely to ourselves, the fishing may really have been as good as I remember it. Then again, the fishing is always as good as we remember it, isn't it?

On one of these trips, when I was perhaps 8 years old, I caught my first big bass. Unlike the spunky 10 to 12 inch one-pounders that were so common, this fish was 16 inches and weighed two-and-one-half pounds. I could not have been more proud. Of course, Grandpa typically caught one bass of seven to eight pounds each year, but he was bad-ass, so this was to be expected. When he caught one of these big bass, he would take it home, clean it and eat it, and then hang the head on a nail on the back of the shed. Over the course of the next year, this big bass head would rot and dry, so that by the following spring, it would be almost unrecognizable. Almost as if on cue, Grandpa would catch another big bass and replace the shriveled head with a fresh one. I know, because I spent hours staring at these bass heads, too.

Young T.J. Brayshaw, with big bass

Grandpa, with bigger bass

When I was old enough to drive, Grandpa got me a summer job working at the golf course so that I could fish the ponds myself. At about this time, I became serious about my bass fishing. I read all the magazines, but most of all, I read B.A.S.S. magazine. Unlike Grandpa, I approached my bass fishing scientifically. I took water temperature measurements and learned all the latest ways to rig plastic worms. I learned how to finesse a worm, slowly working it across the bottom, one finger touching the line so I could feel every move the worm made. I tried to explain all of this to Grandpa, but he refused to change his methods, which largely consisted of tossing out a pre-rigged plastic worm and reeling it back in. All I could do was watch him and shake my head.

I never caught a bass of more than about four pounds from those ponds, while he continued to catch seven and eight pounders. I now shudder to think of what an asshole I was.

My grandfather died of cancer when I was twenty. The last weeks were tough because the pain medications he was taking sometimes made him hallucinate. Sometimes during conversations, he would suddenly begin yelling at me for spilling all over the place something that, because of the drugs, only he could see. But on their 50th wedding anniversary, he instructed my grandmother, who was taking care of him during these last days, not to give him any pain meds. As a result, he was completely lucid that day, and while he must have been in great pain, it never showed. The entire family spent the day together, celebrating their half-century marriage, and we all spent some time speaking with him alone. When he and I spoke, we didn't talk about how he was going to beat the cancer, because it was clear this wasn't going to happen. Because I was in college, and would be going back to school soon, we both knew that this was likely to be our last conversation, and indeed it was. He told me then that one thing he truly regretted was that he and I never got a chance to go musky fishing in Canada.

While I remember this conversation like it was yesterday, one of my most vivid memories of my grandfather was from one of those early fishing trips to the golf course, over ten years before his death and now, it occurs to me, over thirty years ago. He was trying to change lures, but was having trouble threading the fishing line through the small ring on the lure. He called me over and asked me if I would do it for him. "Here," he said. "You do this. You've got young eyes. They make these rings so God-damned small nowadays."

I swelled with pride, partly because he clearly trusted me enough to have me tie his knot for him, but also because he swore in front of me. I was afraid I might get in trouble if I swore in front of any adults, but I recall many times, after that, when I was alone fishing, mumbling under my breath every time I tied on a new lure "They make these rings so God-damned small nowadays." I practiced this so often, surely I must have sounded just like him.

Grandpa, in hat, my father (shirtless) and childhood friend fishing in Canada, late 1950s

How does it feel like?

2011-11-27T20:37:00.003-05:00

I'd say it felt very good, but I'm not completely sure.

It's been a long time since I hooked much. This fall I made twelve trips to RI for two bass and a shad. Twelve. No shit. That's not terribly good, is it? So by the time I got to Pulaski my mind - and any last vestige of dignity - had long departed. You'll see what I mean when you watch this short film. I'm quite the prima donna, as it happens.

I caught some real nice fish, but unlike last year I lost many, many, many steelhead. Everyone lost quite a lot of fish: Fish losing was the name of the game this year. But not for Bill, who insisted on landing more than his fair share.

I will say that the fishing was, once again, quite fantastic. Dozens of large, fresh, insane steel were hooked, and some beauties were landed; the weather was divine; we saw few other anglers over our 4 days; and even mine host kept schtum for the most part. More, it's a plain fact that, however great the fishing, the memorable bit was being on a beautiful river for four solid days with a bunch of fine chaps. I appreciated their company a fuck of a lot, and not just because they can catch steelhead between their legs, either.

At some point one of them mentioned a misspent youth and acid bleeps, hence the Chemicals. What can you do.

Jonny

Particular thanks to Todd and Bill for sharing some of their photos, video, and toilet paper.

Big Mona

2011-11-20T21:38:00.002-05:00

[I was digging around in the archives, where we keep the good Scotch, and I came across this post from the summer. It never made it up because, at the time, I was convinced I'd have part II to tell in just a matter of time. Well, winter's upon us, and part II never happened. I mean, hasn't happened, yet.]

The almost endless rain has put a damper on my carp fishing, and my stream smallmouthing as well, so I've been fishing some ponds for largemouth bass. One of these ponds is a heavily-fished public pond, so I'm not surprised that I've yet to pull out (or even see) any large bass. The other pond would appear on the face of it to be perfect: it's sort of private, being part of a residential community (and said residents do not fish it much, for reasons that I cannot divulge, lest I clue you into its location), and it is virtually impossible for anybody to fish it effectively (for reasons that I cannot divulge, for the same reason). I say "virtually impossible" because I, in fact, can fish it very effectively, not because I am skilled but for other reasons...that I cannot divulge. Let's just say that no laws are being broken, and we'll leave it at that.

The problem is that in two trips, I'd managed only some moderately respectable bluegills and some very small bass. I can be pretty happy fishing water that will give up the occasional fourteen to sixteen inch bass; at that size, they will put a pleasing bend into even my stout six weight bass rod. But this pond failed to do so on my first trip, with the fly . On my second, I left the fly rod at home and worked every likely bit of shoreline cover with some spinner-baits. This, I reasoned, would reveal what sort of potential this pond had. Well, again I failed to catch anything of any size. So I decided I needed some new ponds. I spent an afternoon poring over aerial photographs of my area, and marked about 30 different ponds on the map. That afternoon I also bought a new cap bearing the insignia of the local university where I work, reasoning that this might get my foot in a few doors. Also, according to my wife, my regular fishing cap is vile.

The following day, I took a shower, shaved, put on a clean shirt and my new cap, grabbed my map, and went to it. A few ponds, upon close inspection, were too small or weed-infested to be of interest. Eventually, I came to a farmhouse and was surprised to see "Lepomis" on the license plate of one of the trucks in the drive. Lepomis is the Latin name of the genus that contains the sunfishes. This could be really good, I thought! Eager, I knocked. When a woman answered, I explained that I was new to the area, looking for some fishing, and that from what I could tell from the maps, they had a pond. She grinned and said "Yes, we do have a pond. Two, in fact. And they're full of very, very large fish. We have a lot of five-pound bass, and some bluegills that are pushing two pounds." I tried to act cool. "But," she continued, "my husband is really into those fish and doesn't allow anybody else to fish them." I told her I understood, thanked her for her time, glanced around quickly to see if they had any motion-detecting cameras and/or large-bore firearms, and headed for my car. "I'm trying to think if there are any other ponds in the area..." she said as I'd turned to leave. This was a good sign. She was engaging me in conversation! We chatted a while longer, I turned to leave again, and she said "Do you have a card?". Why, yes I do...and I handed her the small slip of paper containing my name, phone number, and email address. Again I prepared to leave, but now her husband was coming up over the hill on his tractor. She said "Here comes the boss. I can't promise you he'll say yes." Well, the three of us chatted a long while, but in the end, he would not relent (or, at least he has not yet...I left my contact information with them and eagerly await a call...).

What is the point of this story you are now probably asking yourself. Well, I told you that story so that I could then tell you this story:

So here I was, faced with the prospect of more high-water carping, or heading back to one of my regular ponds and the micro-bass they contained. My seven-year-old son asked me if we could go fishing in the morning, something in which he has only shown moderate interest so far. I decided that maybe a pond full of little bass and bluegills might be just about right for a day of Fishing with The Boy, so I agreed. In the morning, we would take some worms and small spinners, and see if we couldn't get him a fish or two. Dawn found us loading the car, and soon we were on the water. It wasn't long before he got his first fish, and soon after a few more. Between the two of us, we managed a few respectable bluegills and several bass...small ones, of course. The Boy admitted to getting bored, so I agreed that we'd fish just a little while longer. Now I must digress here, just briefly. One important part of this story concerns my tackle. Because almost all of my fishing is done with a fly rod, my "conventional" gear leaves something to be desired. The Boy was using one of my nicer, but very old bass rods, fitted with a little spincast reel. I elected to take along a little spinning rod a neighbor gave me years ago. According the writing on the side, this rod is four and one-half feet long, best fitted with 4-8 pound test line, and designed to throw lures up to about one-billionth of an ounce. During the course of the morning, I missed several solid strikes from miniature bass because upon hookset, the rod would double-over and still not drive the hook home. It probably didn't help that I was throwing a small Panther-Martin spinner with dull, rusty, barbless hooks that, I am certain, has been in my tackle box since about 1983.

Now, with apologies to the authors (and, it occurs to me now, the readers) of the "Penthouse Forum", I say that I never thought this would happen to me. At some point during a very routine cast to a very routine spot (one we'd already fished, I think) my spinner stopped short, gave a little (as if hooked on a flexing branch), and then stopped again. I lifted the rod, thinking that perhaps I'd be able to get the lure loose. It was then that I noticed that my line was moving sideways, which was then followed, of course, by the realization that something alive was connected to the other end. In that brief moment I had enough time to wonder first if I'd hooked a large turtle; whatever it was, it was heavy, but also not very energetic. But some subtle shaking convinced me that I had a fish, so my second thought was that maybe I'd hooked a carp (though I had no reason to suspect they were in this pond). I commented, rather casually, to The Boy that I had a fish, and a good one at that. At this point, a large silver and green form materialized and at the same instant that I realized the fish was a largemouth bass, the fish came to the surface and jumped. No, it didn't jump. It wallowed. It opened its enormous maw, and wallowed. And then the spinner flew out of its mouth, and the great fish sank out of view. I made a few comments about the fish and its escape and then The Boy said "Daddy, what does #@&^#% and %&$^#% and #*&%@! mean? And why do you have that look on your face? Daddy, you're scaring me."

And so, when I say that I never thought this would happen to me, I didn't mean that I thought I'd never lose a fish. I didn't mean that I thought I'd never hook a bass that large (although it's true that I never expected that, either). What I mean is that I never thought I'd be that guy who casually tosses a junky lure on a junky rod and hooks a huge fish. Because I just don't fish that way. But I did, and it happened. And damn it, it was a really, really big bass. It was the biggest bass I have ever seen. I caught a bass on a live bluegill many years ago, as a kid, that was 22 inches long and weighed six pounds. Obviously, I can't say for sure how big this lost fish was, and my memory of the six pounder is clouded by years. But I've also caught a number of striped bass and carp exceeding ten pounds in the last few years, so I feel like I have a reasonably good "feel" for basic fish size. I think this bass, whom The Boy has taken to calling "Big Mona", was in the ball park of eight pounds.

Now, I'm faced with some real paternal/piscatorial conflicts. The Boy is now wildly enthusiastic about fishing. And he's damn near hell-bent on catching Big Mona. And I love to see this in him. But since I was the one who hooked and lost that fish, it's only right that I be the one to catch it, at least the first time, right? Right? My wife is disgusted with me. But it's because she doesn't understand, right? Right? The Boy isn't equipped to handle Big Mona. His casts still hang up in the trees, or splash down too hard. He'll scare her. If he does hook her, the reel will fail or the line will break, won't it? And if this happened, we'd all lose, right? Right?

What is the point of this story you are now probably asking yourself. Well, I told you this story so that when I do finally catch Big Mona, I can tell you that story.

Chagrin

2011-11-12T14:49:00.005-05:00

According to the dictionary, "chagrin" is "a keen feeling of mental unease, as of annoyance or embarrassment, caused by failure, disappointment, or a disconcerting event." I should have gotten back in the car right then.

In dire need of some decompression, and, I'll admit, jealous of the hourly texts from Jonny reporting yet another fresh steelhead cartwheeling across the river*, I decided to do a little steelheading of my own. Armed with a box of flies that had worked well in the past, I headed north on Monday evening to the home of an old friend. There, I learned that you really can tell the difference between 80 and 101 proof Wild Turkey.

Morning found me overlooking the aptly named Chagrin river. I pondered this odd river, which, at my first spot, was 70 feet wide, 4 inches deep, and much, much clearer than my head. From my vantage point, high above the river on a bridge, I could see every square inch of water for 50 yards in either direction, and not only were no fish visible, it wasn't at all clear where a fish would hide. I hiked and eventually found a likely-looking pool...already occupied by two fishermen.

Several more stops yielding mostly more keen feelings of mental unease, until finally I found a stretch of river that actually looked like it had not been built by the Army Corps of Engineers out of polished marble counter tops. I spied a likely looking pool, rounded the corner to position myself, and saw another angler working his way towards the head. I was closer, so I felt it would be appropriate that I would have first crack at the spot. So, I quickly hooked the tree behind me, leaving my entire leader on a high branch, well out of reach. Having now left a subtle but uniquely-Brayshaw-esque landmark in the tree, I was sure I'd be able to find this pool on my next trip. This gave me the confidence to re-tie my entire rig, which gave the other fisherman plenty of time to work his way into the pool. I hiked further upstream to fish the water he'd already worked over.

Six casts, and just as many leader replacements later, found me in the greatest of spirits as I eyed a deep chute across the river. A second drift through this water stopped the fly line suddenly, and I lifted the rod to find it buckling against the headshakes of a heavy steelhead. In four tenths of a second the fish was off, and I added to my keen feeling of unease some annoyance, and embarrassement, caused by failure, disappointment, and a series of disconcerting events. Chagrin River, indeed.

Shortly thereafter, I met a couple fishing and the male half asked me if I'd have any luck. "No", I replied, to which he responded "Well, how can you complain on a beautiful day like this!! It's just great to be out here!!" I thought about this as I crushed his trachea under my wading boot, his wife all the while begging me not to kill him. Was this the right thing to do? Probably. But that's not really the point. The point is that I have very limited time to go steelheading, and the drive is very long. When I get there, I want to hook and land large numbers of fast, strong fish. And this is all. I don't care if it is sunny and 72. I thought that we - the steelhead and I - had an agreement, and that this agreement went something like this: I drive a long fucking way and fish hard, and you get caught. I hardly think I am being unreasonable here. And so, needless to say, I am disappointed in steelhead. I know what's going to happen, though. The sting will subside, I'll forget this disastrous trip, and will soon be planning another. In this way, steel heading is much like childbirth, but worse.

Well, this time I am prepared. I made this little video, which I intend to watch every time I start to think that maybe a steelhead trip isn't such a bad idea. Feel free to watch it yourself, if you, too, are thinking of steelhead fishing.

[* Stay tuned...]

Verboten!! Thoughts on ethics and fishing...

2011-11-03T09:27:00.002-04:00

As it turns out, if you show up in an internet fishing discussion forum and suggest that fishing, per se, might raise some challenging ethical questions, you may very well find yourself in the minority position. Through no fault of my own, I am now banned from chat boards in 32 states and 7 foreign countries. This is my story.

Some time ago, on a forum I no longer frequent the Finnish Sword Spirit posed an interesting question: why do we harm what we profess to so love? Of course, this question presupposes two things: first, that we love fish, and second, that what we do harms them. I take it as a given that the former is true. Does fishing harm fish? We know, without a doubt, that the fish we eat are killed, and we also know, without a doubt, that some of the fish we catch, and then release, also die. But of course, the carrots we eat also die – the issue, then, is whether the fish we catch actually suffer.

Although in some ways, this is the most important question, the real purpose of this post isn’t to answer that question, for two reasons. First, this is actually a very complicated question that requires not only a careful definition of “suffer” but also that we decide if such a definition applies only to sentient beings- and this, in turn, requires that we first define “sentient being” and then determine whether fish are, in fact, sentient. For these reasons, determining whether fish feel pain and suffer for it is (in my opinion) largely under the purview of neurologists (And, it seems, still a fairly controversial subject in the field of neurobiology.) Second, if fish do not suffer, then this particular discussion is about as interesting as asking whether it is ethical to eat donuts. So I’m interested in discussing whether fishing raising ethical questions because this, itself, is an interesting question. Interesting is always better than uninteresting. I also admit – no, proudly declare – that my thoughts on this subject are a work in progress. If your thinking isn’t a work in progress, then you’re functionally brain-dead, or at least brain-stagnant. And that’s just not culvert.

So, we’re going to explore this problem under the assumption that fish do feel pain, and can at least experience something akin to “suffering”, though what and how much that might be we won’t specify right now. When these discussions came up on-line, I was surprised at some of the vitriol I experienced when I suggested we might want to think about this. This vitriol was, in my opinion, misguided for the following reasons. If we (i.e. fishermen) justify the ethical permissibility of fishing on the premise that fish cannot suffer, then we will be forced to accept that fishing is ethically impermissible if, at some point, scientists determine beyond any reasonable doubt that fish do indeed suffer. If, instead, we can identify a justification for fishing that does not rely on the premise that fish do not feel pain, it won’t matter what scientists later discover.

There is an additional reason, also self-serving, why we should think about this topic. We will never convince an ardent opponent of fishing to go fishing or even that fishing is ethical. However, there is a large proportion of the population that does not fish, but is not – yet – opposed to the idea that those of us who wish to fish should be allowed to do so legally. When these people see the “slob fisherman”, who leaves his empty beer cans along the river, tosses fish onto the bank to slowly suffocate, and treats with utter disdain those who might even wonder if fishing presents some ethical challenges, these fence-sitters move a little more in one direction. When they see that fisherman are instead capable of thinking about, and even concerned about, the welfare of the fish they catch, then the fence-sitters move a little bit in the other direction. Why should you care? Because fence-sitters, by virtue of their numbers, have influence.

And, I have to get one more thing off my chest. I’m not going to try to determine here whether fish do or do not feel pain or suffer. But I have to address some of the arguments that I regularly see offered as proof of either the former or the latter. Perhaps more than anything else, I see the following: “If fish felt pain, they would not eat sharp things. Yet fish do eat sharp things; therefore, fish do not feel pain.” This argument is internally valid, but is based on a false premise. The idea that fish would not eat sharp things if they felt pain is simply ludicrous. Natural selection favors traits, including behaviors, whose benefits, on average, outweigh the costs – and all traits have both benefits and costs. Animals of all kinds do things that cause them pain precisely because the benefits outweigh the costs. The examples are countless, but consider the many male mammals (which we all reasonably infer feel pain) that will fight with rival males, often becoming mortally wounded in the process, for the chance to mate with females. Why in the world would males fight like this if they felt pain? To get laid! Because any male who was unwilling to do so would not produce male offspring who, in turn, were also willing to do so.

One also regularly sees the argument that fish must not feel pain, because otherwise they would not fight against the angler. The idea here is that by resisting, they would increase the pain inflicted by the hook. Assuming that no animal would do anything that increases pain, it must follow, then, that fish do not feel pain. Of course, the assumption is bogus (particularly when one considers the fish’s options, as the fish must "see" it: resist and possibly live, or come in calmly and be killed). Interestingly, the same observation – that fish resist being captured – is also offered as evidence that they do feel pain or suffer. Unfortunately, the fact that fish, or any organism, can respond in a way as to avoid or mitigate damage is not evidence, one way or the other, on the pain and suffering question. Plants can detect damage from herbivores and respond by sending defensive chemicals to the site of damage. Many single-celled aquatic organisms will respond to potential threats by swimming away. These – and other “damage mitigating” traits – not only do not require a sense of pain, they don’t even require a nervous system or consciousness. Neurobiologists who study fish still do not agree on whether fish suffer, not because they disagree on what fish do when hooked, but because they disagree on how a fish’s brain processes the event.

But for the sake of this discussion, for reasons outlined above, we’re going to assume that fish do feel pain and suffer, at least to some degree. From here, I’m going to take what we might call a more-or-less utilitarian ethics perspective (as opposed to, say, a deontological one). This is basically the idea that what is right is that which maximizes good and minimizes harm. Although some would disagree that a utilitarian approach ever justifies causing animals harm, most people probably fall somewhere else on the spectrum. For example, many people argue that some kind of research on animals is justified, provided that the benefits from that research (say, for example, towards curing diseases that cause great suffering) are sufficient. This argument usually assumes that, at a minimum, humans are justified in causing some animal suffering if the alternative is death, or perhaps also horrible human suffering.

Things that are necessary for us to live we could call “essential human benefits”. All else we might call “non-essential human benefits”. The problem gets complex, and therefore interesting, once it is no longer human life that is at stake but instead something that we might say “ranks lower” than simply sustaining a human life, i.e. those “non-essential human benefits.” Let’s ignore, for the moment, that there might be some disagreement over what is or is not “essential”, or over whether something might be called a “benefit” or not. Let’s just lump all those things that some humans do to improve the quality of their lives into this category (even if you, yourself, don’t necessarily do it). What might some of these be, that include the use of animals and cause, perhaps, suffering? Animal research that is not directly related to saving human lives, hamburgers, bullfights, hunting and fishing (among all but those who must live where agriculture - and relocating - is not an option) probably all qualify as non-essential human benefits that result in some degree of animal suffering. Anything else? More on this shortly.

Arguments against these and similar activities posit that the suffering these activities cause does not justify them because they are non-essential, and because the suffering they cause is not (or may not be) trivial. Much of the debate around the use of animals concerns the use of animals for food, because humans do need to eat after all; so, the question becomes whether eating meat is essential, and if not, can it be justified? For most people, eating meat is not essential; this is incontrovertible, I think. The obvious alternative, then, is to eat plants. But is it? Some thought-provoking debates in the field of environmental/animal ethics have recently addressed whether, from a utilitarian approach, eating plants always causes less harm than eating animals. If strict utilitarianism is the standard by which we assign ethical permissibility, and it can be shown that some forms of meat consumption cause less suffering, overall, than practices associated with plant consumption, then it must be concluded that this form of meat consumption is more ethically permissible than being a vegetarian. This is precisely the argument that Steven Davis puts forth in a paper that received not just considerable attention in the scholarly literature, but even in the popular press. One key point in Davis’s argument is that agricultural practices, i.e. the growing of plants for food, inevitably harm and kill animals – but he goes further. Citing the very few studies that have actually tried to quantify the number of vertebrates killed by agriculture, Davis argues that some (but not all) meat-based diets actually result in fewer animal deaths, per year, than a strictly vegetarian diet. (Davis focuses on vertebrates, particularly birds and small mammals, because most of the meat we eat comes from vertebrates, and because it is not clear at all whether insects – which are surely killed by the billions by agriculture – can actually suffer.) His study was subsequently criticized on a number of grounds, in particular that some of the calculations were wrong – and from the utilitarian (i.e. “least harm”) perspective, this matters. I’ll let somebody else do the research. But the idea itself is thought provoking, to me, and has some bearing (though perhaps tangential) to my recent thoughts on fishing and ethics.

One of the arguments fishermen often make to justify fishing is that, among other things, they get to interact with nature. For many opposed to fishing, this is insufficient grounds for causing fish to suffer for a number of reasons, one of which is the argument that one can “get out into nature” without actually fishing. This argument assumes that a fisherman can get that connection to nature whether he or she is fishing or not. Most fishermen, I contend, would not agree with that, even if they cannot explain exactly why. I certainly fall into that category. It strikes me as very similar, in some ways, to what making music does for some musicians and what painting does for some artists. That is, although they cannot (perhaps) describe the effect it has on them, it is real and important. And most importantly, it cannot be replaced by another activity, just because somebody else cannot understand why it cannot. Should the violinist suddenly find himself without a violin, he is probably not going to be satisfied by the suggestion that he “just take up painting”. This is an important point, to which I'll return shortly, because it has bearing on one of the criticisms of fishing: that fishing causes suffering in fish for nothing more than the "fun" that the fisherman gains. I think many of us, i.e. fishermen, would agree that "fun" doesn't quite capture it. Again - more on this shortly.

The question I keep returning to is “What are we entitled to, beyond mere existence, and where does that “thing” that we get from fishing fall, relative to other non-essential human benefits?” Reflecting back on the arguments of Davis, even if one accepts the criticisms of his calculations, it’s probably incontrovertible that modern agricultural practices harm a shit-ton of animals. Now, you might be right in arguing that this still harms fewer animals than if we were to eat them, but the consequences of all of the death and destruction of modern agriculture go beyond simply providing us with necessary calories and nutrients. It provides us with a relatively cheap and varied selection of veggies. And these attributes, I argue, are in fact “non-essential human benefits.” That is, while we do need to eat, it is far from essential that we have access to produce that is as inexpensive and varied as it is. Lentils everyday, anyone? When cheap vegetables, and all of the other things that we (as in “first-world inhabitants”) enjoy as non-essential benefits – and, it would seem to me, this includes a whole lot of stuff…stuff that nobody I know does entirely without – are considered in this light, things get more complicated. So far I’ve been unable to come up with a positive justification for fishing (by which I mean, a justification that argues that my going fishing causes me more pleasure than the equivalent suffering it causes to the fish – provided that we assume the fish do, in fact, suffer.) But I’m also unable to convince myself that my fishing is, in fact, more harmful than what many people are doing when they take advantage of (often unknowingly, or without any thought to) these various non-essential benefits. And I think this gets back to the issue of whether fishing is simply something we do "for fun" - and if there is more to it than that, which I think is so, how does one evaluate it relative to the many things we humans do merely "for convenience"? Here, of course, I'm referring to my earlier points about inexpensive and varied produce selections, and the like. My gut wants to say, in response to the argument that if I were to cease fishing, the world would be spared of some suffering: “You go first.”

Finally, the “least harm principle” suggests that there is a currency (i.e. harm, or the avoidance of harm), and this brings up another question: Can one “cap and trade” oneself to a more (but probably not perfectly) ethical life? In other words, if I don’t eat a cheap and well-balanced meal on Friday (and instead opt for the more expensive and certainly less interesting, but also less-harmful “Lentil Surprise”), can I go fishing on Saturday?

- T.J. Brayshaw

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For those interested in wading a bit deeper into the literature surrounding these debates, here are some starting points...

The article by De Leeuw is one of the more widely cited philosophical papers arguing against "sport" fishing. De Leeuw argues that fishing is an act of cruelty. It's a thought provoking read, as is Olsen's very good critique of De Leeuw's paper.

De Leeuw, A. Dionys (1996) Contemplating the interests of fish: the angler’s challenge. Environmental Ethics 18:373-390.

Olesen, Len (2003) Contemplating the intentions of anglers: the ethicist’s challenge. Environmental Ethics 25:267-277.

The paper by Davis that I mentioned in the post is listed below, along with two follow-up papers that challenged some of Davis's assumptions and conclusions:

Davis, Steven (2003) The least harm principle may require that humans consume a diet containing large herbivores, not a vegan diet. Journal of Agricultural and Environmental Ethics 16:387-394 (2003).

Matheny, Gaverick (2003) Least harm: a defense of vegetarianism from Steven Davis’s omnivorous proposal. Journal of Agricultural and Environmental Ethics 16:505-511.

Lamey, Andy (2008) Food Fight! Davis versus Regan on the Ethics of Eating Beef. Journal of Social Philosophy 38:331-348

Finally, those interested in some of the more practical and biological issues relevant to this debate, such as the effects of capture on fish survival and welfare, whether fish can feel pain and have the capacity to suffer, etc, I'd suggest digging up papers by the following authors:

Robert Arlinghaus, Steven J. Cooke, Victoria Braithwaite, Lynne Sneddon, James D. Rose

Arlinghaus and Cooke often tackle the really practical stuff (what happens to fish when they're caught, played and released, etc.). Braithwaite, and to some degree Sneddon, work on the issue of pain in fish, and tend to come down on the side that fish do feel pain and might suffer. James D. Rose, on the other hand, is biologist who comes down on the other side, and has been very critical of some of the work by Sneddon. All the work is worth a read.

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[This is more deep-thinking that is good for me, so it is my hope and intention to bring you more ridiculous, irreverent and offensive material as soon as I recover and am back to my normal self. I'd like to thank Erin Block, of the blog Mysteries Internal, for inspiring me to put this post up, after sitting on it for some time. Her recent post on the ethical issues surrounding fishing for spawning fish was not only well-written and thought provoking, but the post and subsequent comments also increased my confidence that there are some thinking folks out there...]

The Culvert Male Bag

2011-11-01T13:15:00.001-04:00

On any given day The Culvert receives a multitude of letters and packages; some from grateful anglers, some from product developers and advertisers. We're simply unable to respond to such high volume but we do appreciate it, and like to share a random selection every so often. If we print your letter we'll send you a *Butt Out II! Today I wanted to share this rather sweet letter from a chap called Chuck (actually, I'm assuming he's a chap - he didn't say, and given his suggestion, I don't think we've ever met).

"Dear Jonny: Please could you forward this to Brayshaw? I figure if he uses TP on his face the dumb shit didn't figure out email yet. Anyways, I know The Culvert is inundated with mail from fans and I don't expect you to respond [Ed: surprise!] But instead of the usual complaints, I would like to branch out with a suggestion. Surely the blog could use some prettying up? See the example below of what real carp fishermen [sic] look like. I never been carp fishing, but I imagine the local brownline streams are chock full of anglers just like this.

Cheers - Chuck"

Some writing down here. It doesn't matter what. I've stopped writing, and you no longer remember why you even stopped by.

EJ

The Culvert selects the best ____________ of the year!

2011-10-31T13:46:00.002-04:00

How does he do it? He always carries a ______________, that's how!!!

The coming of fall is always bittersweet, since it means the close of much of the best fishing of the year. But fall is also when we here at The Culvert review products, just in time for your holiday shopping! Stay tuned for unbiased reviews on the latest and greatest products to hit the shelves in 2011, and get a jump on 2012. We don't sugarcoat anything here at The Culvert, least of all our reviews. In fact, while we haven't yet decided what products to review, we've already written the unbiased review itself, and as soon as the products start rolling into the central office, we'll be on the water testing 'em ! Read on...

We all have one - that favorite hat, or pair of slippers - that thing which is perfect, and made so because it has grown with us, over time. So much so, in fact, that it's hard to say where we stop, and it begins. The problem, of course, is that these things never start that way. That kind of perfect comes only with time…or does it? Had you told us that the wait was over, we wouldn't have believed it, until now. But it's true, and it's our hope that you won't just take our word for it. Until then, our word will have to suffice.

Perhaps on occasion, somebody pulls a fast one on English Jonny. Sometimes ol' Brayshaw gets bamboozled. But it's a rare product, indeed, that can impress us both. But with ________________ we have both found our "perfect pair of slippers", and despite our differing shoes sizes, we both agreed that ________________ "fit" perfectly, right from the start.

The first thing we noticed, the moment we took _________________ out of the box, was the exquisite craftsmanship. No, it's not often that one describes ________________ in terms normally reserved for a Stradavarius, but then again, the ___________________ from ___________________ is simply no ordinary _____________________. Is this sort of attention to detail necessary? No, probably not. Certainly not if one's goal is simply to catch fish. But with ________________, catching fish becomes an experience.

And catch fish we did. The _______________ is a work of art, for sure. But it's more than that. From the moment we reached the water, the ________________ from _________________ performed flawlessly. Jonny netted the largest fish of the season moments after our arrival at the water's edge, and while the crowd came to see his fish, it was the __________________ that drew all of the "oohs" and "ahhhs". Could he have caught that fish without his _________________? Not likely, and everybody knew it. But there wasn't enough gold in Fort Knox to make Jonny part with his new _________________, such was his admiration.

Not to put to fine a point on the matter, but the _______________ is simply the last __________________ you will ever need to buy. Do you need it to catch fish? Maybe not. Do you need it to look good? Maybe not.

But we see no reason why, at a reasonable $ __, ______, you can't do both.

Our future. Your future. The future.

2011-10-29T09:13:00.004-04:00

During a recent Executive Council meeting, the staff discussed the nature of The Angler's Culvert (hereafter referred to as T.A.C., or sometimes simply TAC, or sometimes just The Culvert, or sometimes just "this place", or "here"), how far we'd come, and where we hope to be a few days or even weeks into the future. With barely concealed howls of laughter, we lauded ourselves on our efforts, and successes, at presenting largely "original content", something we feel is largely lacking in the fly fishing sphere of blogs (hereafter referred to as "the blogosphere").

Now, having despite all that, I'd like to point our readers to an important study, published some time ago by somebody else, but that never received the important attention it deserved. We, here, have used the results of the study in our own efforts to tailor this place, but it's important reading for anybody who cares about fly fishing, its future, and, dare I say, our future as human beings. Yes, it's that important.

Please read it.

http://lowbrowangler.com/blog/?p=595

A Special Reading

2011-10-21T22:37:00.004-04:00

Although we here at the Culvert like to have fun now and again, we're not philistines. Please join us for a special installment of "English Jonny Reads the Masters", our multi-part series on the great literature of fly fishing.

Acarpolypse Now

2011-10-15T14:07:00.002-04:00

This is the last carp video of the season. I sat on this footage awhile, hoping something better would come along that I could add to it. Never did, so here it is.

Required Reading

2011-10-13T17:05:00.002-04:00

Russell Chatham said somewhere that Roderick Haig-Brown ought to be required reading for all students. I was reminded of this recently when I came across this passage from his book "A River Never Sleeps", first published over 60 years ago:

That is all.

The Laird

2011-10-04T22:47:00.002-04:00

Dave came into the Edinburgh Safeway super market where I worked as a 16 year-old shelf stacker. Unmistakable in Tweed cap, Tweed plus-twos, muddy wellingtons and a beaten-up old fake Barbour jacket, I thought he might be an angler (I’d already been bitten by that bug). We got talking and he told me he was a “shooting man”, and I didn’t know what that was until weeks later I was walking in line through a turnip field in Kinross-shire with good friends Graeme and Grant. I remember our first day perfectly: we were next to the “D Wood” on the border of Hilton of Aldie Farm and Parks of Aldie estate, tracts of rolling arable farmland that sit within a perennially damp patch in the Loch Leven basin, Kinross, Scotland. Staying in line and trying to mimic the alien cries of the pheasant beater, I remember Dave’s brown and white springer spaniel, Scamp – the most disobedient of his family of dogs, ferrets and Lord knows what else - as he pushed a huge cock pheasant into the air. And then what seemed like a lifetime as David patiently let the bird reach sporting distance before the first barrel of his old 12 bore pigeon gun brought it crumpling down, stone dead. This was my first experience of shooting – my first close quarters with a pheasant and a dog working cover; the first impressive discharge of a shotgun’s delayed blast - and it bit me hard. It was the beginning of my friendship with Dave Watson.

Everything about Dave was shooting, and everything else just had to fit round it. A wife or family were out of the question. You couldn’t sit down in Dave’s house without gaining a coating of dog hair. Ducks, pheasants, pigeon, snipe, grouse all hung to season in the coat cupboard. Pheasant pictures adorned coasters, blinds, cushions. Shooting party photographs looked down from the mantle; ferrets sat next to dogs on the living room floor; the shotgun always dismantled and drying next to the three-bar fire. Dave would sit there in rare downtime, occasionally breaking less interesting conversation to swing an invisible gun at an invisible bird on his living room ceiling - “co-cock, co-cock…over!!!” The place smelled liked a hunting lodge. I know this because I used to go to Dave’s on lunch-break from the store. He’d always make game soup or wild mallard sandwiches lathered in butter. Dave even ate shooting.

I don’t think I stopped going to Aldie with Dave for the next 15 years. I bought a shot gun and for a time shooting even surpassed my passion for fly fishing. We’d hunt rabbits in the summer, either walking in line over the moorland on the lower part of the estate, or using Albert and Daphne, his ferrets, to bolt rabbits from their holes (we lost Albert one night. He’d cornered a rabbit underground and died of a happy surfeit of best Scottish bunny). It was a great way to learn gun safety and how to hit a tricky target. Later in the year we’d focus on the main game – pheasants and gray partridge - and this we did either with just the two of us (Scamp was later replaced by black and white springer, Don), or with a group of 6 or 7 guns in the true rough-shoot style. Our bags were typically made of a few pheasants that Dave would spend off-hours drawing in from surrounding estates with his continuous feeding regime; and to that we’d add a partridge, a few duck from the stream bordering the estate (and in which I once released too many shots at a large trout before being the subject of much ribbing (“were ya trying to cut the wee thing intae steaks??”), a woodcock, snipe, some wood pigeon and ground game – more rabbits and brown hares. These were great autumnal occasions, as much about social lunchtimes in the barn as anything else. Dave would always produce a picnic hamper – it was cherry or apricot brandy all round. The afternoon beats were always more leisurely affairs.

David Watson, front and center.

At night we’d flight duck, usually into the Aldie farm pond, which again Dave would feed diligently with barley. He'd planted conifer saplings around the perimeter as cover, and today they're 25' tall. I’ll never forget the soft sound of wing beats and the rigid anticipation of birds circling overhead. On still, moonlit nights they’d pass nervously for long periods; us tucked down in undergrowth with breaths held and no smoking. A stormy night was best to bring the ducks fearlessly in, but eventually they’d descend into the bright fire from our guns, and if we’d done our job a mallard or teal would splash down into the pond sending the dog to work. I never tasted better meat than roasted wild mallard.

I was invited to many posh shoots all over Scotland because of Dave. I shot red grouse in the Pentland Hills; pheasants at Hopetown House. I missed pheasants at some of the very finest sporting estates, but Dave and his crowd were only ever encouraging, and he continued to give me the best stands throughout his time as gamekeeper on the neighboring Parks of Aldie shoots. Some days we’d make fine bags of 50 brace of pheasants and other assorted game, but Dave rarely picked up a gun himself. For the most part he did all of this, his life’s passion, to see his friends enjoying good sport. (When he did shoot, we knew he was the best of the group. I could try for the rest of my given days, but I’m confident I’ll never bring down a left and right at tiny, zig-zagging snipe on a bleak, wild moorland gloaming. I’m just glad I got to see it.)

English Jonny and The Laird on his last day as Head Keeper, Parks of Aldie

It was the casual days I enjoyed most. We’d plant trees for cover or release pheasant poults in pens we’d made. The Laird always played down our chances on a shooting day: “it’s just a walk. A piss-about day”, he’d say. This meant standing in woodland for the evening pigeon roost, or shooting the same birds over decoys in a crop field. Building hides and shooting snowballs when nothing came. In other slow times we’d trap carrion “hoody” crows or shoot a fox - once I saw Dave imitate an injured rabbit (put your mouth to the back of your hand and suck) to lure a stoat from its hiding place towards our guns. Per tradition, such vermin would be impaled on barbed-wire fences around the farm, a sign to the farmer that we were earning our keep (and that others should keep away). Dave was a gamekeeper first and last, always with a wink in his eye, but equally in demand as an after-dinner speaker to refined company.

I sold my shotgun a few years’ ago and somewhere over the Atlantic I lost touch with The Laird, safe in the knowledge I’d stand in line with my mentor again. Today I finally managed to track him down, only to learn that cancer claimed my friend in 2006, the year after I left Scotland for America. His friends went for a walk over Aldie to commemorate their great friend, and while I don’t know the bag, I’m sure Dave would have loved every minute of it.

He was my dear pal and I’ll miss him.

Jonny

Well, are you, punk?

2011-09-29T21:12:00.002-04:00

Recently, while researching a potential job at a university, Google led me to a website that asked me "Are you a Bro?" It promises that if I learn the "Bro code", I will then "get photos of hot girls, funny stories and videos, frat music and playlists" and other fine things. I accidentally kept reading, and learned that "bro" is also an adjective, and a versatile one at that. For example, the site's chat board includes repeated queries from young men wishing to know if a particular musician or clothing brand is still bro. Apparently, one of the worst things a new fraternity brother can do is wear something that is no longer bro. One fellow was informed that bragging about having sex with a coed who was menstruating was "so not bro". Nowhere was a formal definition of "bro" provided, but of course that's partly the point. If you don't know what bro means, you are most certainly not bro.

It occurred to me, after I was finished viewing the hot girls and funny stories, that fly fishing is in need of an adjective. And, because nobody has stepped up to the plate, I am doing so now. Am I going to define this adjective? No. Either you are, or you are not. Not sure? Spend some time on this blog.

And then ask yourself "Am I culvert?"

Well, are you, punk?

Early-season Waterfowl

2011-09-25T12:46:00.002-04:00

As days grow shorter and shadows grow longer, our thoughts turn to the upcoming autumn waterfowl season. We reminisce about chilly late afternoons in the blind, squinting into the setting sun, hoping for the glimpse of a few strays, coming in for the evening.

Brayshaw watches the horizon for incoming bluebills

It's not important, in the end, that we always get our ducks. But when it happens, the deal is sweetened in ways we cannot always express in words. Sometimes, we simply rejoice in the feel of a trusty shotgun in one hand, a duck dinner in the other, and the promise, we hope, of more.

Brayshaw with the first of many, we hope.

Fishing with Steve and Bob

2011-09-12T21:11:00.000-04:00

One gets so awfully tired of reading *the same old combination of self-serving boastful crap, all wrapped up in a Yoda-like layer of vomit. So let's just clear something up: It's officially okay to talk about fishing. You know, not about numbers; just that mildly relevant metric that you caught fish, or not. No need to keep schtum; mum's the word; a nod's as good as a wink to a blind man.

I went fishing Saturday night with Steve and Bob. Good guys to fish with. They're happy to be sneaking away, no school next day, and consider discussion of food, tobacco, women, steelhead, and a rich dissection of fishing as much a part of the evening as playing tag with their egos. They're happy fellas and for the most part I think they go fishing for the same pleasure as me - to catch a damned fish. (As the great Bill Hicks once said, if this offends anyone, "go ahead and kill yourself. No joke. Do it now"**).

We fished a delightful beach in the Western-most part of RI&PP. We were trying to catch those fish in the wash, but we still had light and thus a pristine view of our flies swinging on up the beach after each heavy wave. As far as I know this wasn't putting us on what you'd call productive water, but we tried valiantly for 20 minutes or so. I kept my eye on Bob, on my left, and Steve, on the right, and they might have been peeking back to see who'd blink first and call a halt to the madness. You see, when the waves are that big you just cannae control your fly, but by jings it was nice trying. Steve worked a ball of mullet (only now do I realize how sexy this sounds), a spin guy landed a large blue, and my feet sank 6" after every wave, a feeling that I really like, though it's a mildly alcoholic sensation. Steve was knocked for 6*** by a wave and cackled. He did it again on the breachway too, when I thought he'd caught a fish but was just poking around trying to retrieve his fly. (A nicotine-starved aside: I wonder how often laughter is the last emotion before you're swept to your watery death?) The spray on those rocks was just the refreshing side of dangerous, and our minds wandered to thinking about what it'd be like to take a dip in Pulaski in 20 degree frozen rain. (Ans: More Death. But I can't wait to get up there. Trout fishing just hasn't been the same this year.)

Pounding wind and white water. Bob wears only a T shirt.

We went inside the breachway - no wind here - and saw shoals of medium-sized mullet that initially we took to be entire current seems there was so much of it. It was one of those atmospheric nights when it's lovely to be out under a near-full moon doing your stuff, three guys covering the water rather nicely, even if you long suspected that your chances of catching were never fair. And that's got to be okay, right? I mean, it'd take a special kind of loon to fish half a lifetime and still think the fish are always there. On the drive home we happily agreed that on this occasion they probably weren't, and that certain sexual acts are ill advised in the wake of a good chili.

Bottom's up! Here's to great company, and better fishing to come.

Jonny

*Brayshaw's gone back to school, but he mentioned this earlier tonight.
**http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gDW_Hj2K0wo
***A "home run" in the game cricket.

Altogether now, All you need is Fun (everybody).

2011-09-02T12:39:00.003-04:00

A good chunk of the people that talk about fishing are full of a substance akin to the post-Irene slurry currently flowing from the Connecticut river (clue: it is the color of bright shit). This isn't a surprise, as an awful lot of people go fishing. Data shows that the chunk who provide fishing wisdom typically have an angle to their angling, and usually the motivation is money; be they pedaling the best gear, the best way to employ it, or new-found "innovation", all wrapped in a warm, status-conferring hug. Selling shit is what it usually boils down to, whether they realize it, much less admit it, or not. (You can have fun with your own data collection by testing a simple hypothesis: the ones on the make are slow to reveal themselves as playful amateurs by comparison to the real masters, who are established beyond doubt, at least within +/- fairly narrow tolerance intervals to correct for taste.)

So I'm pleased by the fact that the guy who sells more shit than anyone else isn't like that. You don't have to like what he writes - though maybe you should appreciate what is surely good writing - but it's of some reassurance that his humility and down-right good quality continues to win the day (it may also signify that I'm not the one on my way to the loony bin, though rather like a day's fishing, one can't be terribly sure). I don't know him, but I'm thinking he shares a similar outlook to me and a handful of other goons I have the fortune to fish with. Watch the video, read Tom Chandler's splendid interview, then go ahead and ask yourself:

If I'm not doing this for the fun, why am I doing it?

-- Jonny

T.J.'s Tips!

2011-08-22T09:59:00.003-04:00

Although we do like to have some fun here at The Culvert, there are some things, like protecting your skin from the sun, that are not to be joked about.

However, some of the things that hip fly fishermen wear are to be joked about - as often as possible.

Act Nice and Gentle

2011-08-19T09:58:00.005-04:00

Happy Fishermen

2011-08-16T20:59:00.002-04:00

Occasionally I read something so bloody good, so terribly pleasing, that it's worth the poor photographs. Well, they do say a picture's worth a thousand words

(they being a bunch of dribbling morons.)

Roderick Haig-Brown, Fisherman's Spring, 1951

Down Yonder

2011-08-15T22:25:00.000-04:00

Wilde

2011-08-13T09:01:00.002-04:00

I have nothing to declare but yesterday's species count. There were 8 in total and, in order of importance, they were: large mouth bass; striped bass; white perch; sunfish; calico bass; creek chub; brown trout; salmon par.

I caught the first 6 by my house in a natural stream that anglers ignore. I didn't even go there to catch these fish - I was after carp, but the tide was in, the sediment thick, so I had to settle for these 6 different species of wild fish. I didn't see another angler because this isn't a fishery - it's not a destination, despite the weeping willows, the loveliness of the stream, the reality and challenge of the setting, the plentiful fish. It's not a trout stream. Here are some of the wild fish:

Quite a chunk, this fish went air-borne twice.

One of the prettiest fish I've seen.

If these fish grew to 6lbs I'd buy a flats boat.

Sunny, midday, August. A world record?

Afterwards I made the long drive to fish the Farmington in the afternoon with Zakur and Don, and it isn't even Thanksgiving. These two guys know the pace of a river; that catching doesn't really matter. Sometimes sitting by a river, catching up, is better than fishing it, and this is true of the Farmington in August. It's a great trout stream when the stocking truck's been, but despite its relative beauty, it's something of a limp affair in the dog days. We caught a handful of this year's stockies and a bucket full of salmon par, each delicately fried in cornmeal, held by the tail and consumed whole. We had a jolly time, but the fishing wasn't what you'd call good.

It looks like a trout stream, but is it?

Real wild flowers?

Don and Steve. They are real.

Like a stocked brown trout, by August my brain has re-calibrated from the lusts of spring. By mid-summer I need natural rivers and wild, weird fish.

See you by the old Mill.

Jonny

Farewell, Fat Lady

2011-08-10T12:35:00.002-04:00

Britain's largest and most beloved fish has died peacefully at her St. Ives home. Though we never met this particular fat lady, The Angler's Culvert team expresses its deepest sympathies to the anglers of Great Britain, in England, at this sad time. In lieu of flowers, please make donations to People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals.

Rest in peace, Fatty.

Jonny

Slurp Cast!

2011-08-07T01:00:00.003-04:00

Join us for this week's "Slurp Cast!", the video podcast of the Angler's Culvert, hosted by T.J. Brayshaw and English Jonny, and sponsored by "Slurp" magazine, the only magazine dedicated exclusively to fly fishing for carp and the literature that it inspires.

In this week's Slurp Cast, Brayshaw interviews well-known angler Lefty Kreh. Watch and listen to hear some of Lefty's great stories, and learn more about how to catch carp on the fly!!

Those who can, carp. Those who can't, carpn't.

2011-08-04T13:28:00.003-04:00

I had a little time to kill.

The Desperate Man

2011-08-03T16:53:00.003-04:00

Despite the fact that, over my wife's protestations, I refused to soothe, console, comfort or otherwise contact my children during their recent bout with a stomach virus, I still managed to contract it. This falling on the heels of a week-long, carp-free family vacation (what's the point, really?), I was desperate for some slurp. And so despite something less than a full recovery, I ventured out on a recent Sunday morning, and did alright. In fact, I managed to get three carp, one right after another, in the same spot with nary a footstep between slurps. So, Friend, if anybody tells you that once you've gotten one from a spot the others will have bolted or turned hopelessly off the feed, don't you believe it.

My apologies for the video perspective - this stuff ain't easy to do by one's lonesome.

The music is "The Desperate Man" by the Black Keys. I chose this song because it was about the same length as the video, and this seemed easier than yet more editing.

The Desperate Man (gets his Daily Slurp) from English Jonny on Vimeo.

The Bird

2011-07-29T23:49:00.001-04:00

The day dawned like any other November day; perhaps a bit warmer than usual, but still entirely unremarkable. We rarely know, in the beginning, that a day is to be a "big day", and it's probably just as well. If we did know, we'd do things differently, and it's probably that we do not that is precisely why these days turn as as they do. And so it was that the young hunter - no longer a boy, to be sure, but not yet a man - unleashed his hound, and headed off into the brush, as he had done a dozen times already that fall. The dog, still a youngster himself, was a sleek, happy, but stubborn beagle named Phragmites. The dog was already a fairly accomplished rabbit hound, and the hunter was proud; proud of Phragmites and proud of his own development as a hunter. Why it was just a year prior that he had killed his first rabbit, this over Roy's pack of half-wild beagles. Roy, one of the hired farm hands, had a crew of six or seven dogs - dogs that were lean, and did not eat if they did not run rabbits. This was partly because Roy was poor, but partly because he felt this made the dogs better hunters. When a rabbit was killed, it was only in about eight of ten cases that one could get to the animal before the dogs did. And of course, if the dogs reached the rabbit first there was nothing left for the game vest. If Roy did get the rabbit first, he would "remove" the head, toss it to the snarling pack, and put the rest of the rabbit in his vest. For all of these reasons, and more, Roy was suspicious that the young hunter could make a rabbit dog out of Phragmites. After all, Phragmites was not only well fed - "fat", according to Roy - but also spoiled rotten...at least as far as Roy was concerned. "You don't hunt rabbit with a godamn pet!!" is what he would say.

None of this bothered the young hunter, of course. By which we mean that he had full confidence in Phragmites, and loved him unconditionally. But Oh! Oh, how he wanted to prove to Roy that Phragmites was a genuine rabbit dog! Roy had no interest in hunting with just a single dog, and when on occasion the hunter and Phragmites joined Roy and his pack, it is true that Phragmites did not perform well. It wasn't that he couldn't run rabbits - he could! But Phragmites was a slow, deliberate hunter. He was the whole package: a strike dog with nose, drive, and bottom. But of course, he hunted alone and therefore by his rules, and his alone. In the company of Roy's uncivilized curs - and that's how Phragmites and the hunter saw them, to be sure - poor Phragmites just didn't know what to do. Now, our hunter knew this to be true: that never had there been, nor would there ever be, a rabbit run by a better dog than Phragmites. But he also knew, or so he thought, that he'd never be able to prove it to Roy. On this day, all of this would change.

But as I say, we don't know these things most times. And this would explain why, as he was leaving the house, the hunter grabbed just a handful of two-and-one-half inch .410 shells. He did not yet own a big bore shotgun, and it didn't occur to him at the time that, perhaps, the larger three inch .410 "magnum" shells...and many of them...would have been prudent.

Phragmites picked up scent as soon as he'd crossed the fence and rounded the first briar patch. The hunter knew rabbits and he knew Phragmites, and so he positioned himself on the high mound by the sumac trees - for he knew that a rabbit jumped by the briar patch would first enter the tall grass, run the short length of the fenceline, and then re-enter the brush before crossing in front of the sumacs. Phragmites would follow, baying musically, but would maintain the proper distance, such that the rabbit would move quickly enough but not so quickly that the hunter would miss the shot. And so it was, and the game pouch sagged with the weight of the day's first rabbit

The hunter patted Phramites on the head affectionately, pointed to the brush, and said "Go on now, hunt 'em up!" It was not but a few minutes thereafter that the dog signaled that he'd struck scent again. The hunter was already in position, and knew he need do nothing but wait: Phragmites would bring the rabbit around presently, the shot would be easy, and dog and hunter would return home with a brace of bunnies fit for stewing. But something was not right. From the sound of the dog's baying, it was clear that this rabbit was not following standard operating protocol. Instead of coming around the well worn path, as all rabbits jumped here had done to this day, this rabbit appeared to be taking Phragmites deeper into the brush. If it continued, dog and rabbit would be close to the swamp, and the hunter would have to reposition himself. It was at this moment, as he was considering his options, that the change in dog's voice stopped him cold. Phragmites had ceased to bay and was instead barking and growling angrily. It was momentarily quiet, and then the hunter heard Phragmites yelp once, then twice, then three times. The hunter ran to the dog, not sure what was going on but not at all comfortable with the sounds he was hearing. When at least he reached the dog, he found Phragmites scratched and muddy, confused but excited. The dog clearly did not want to give up - something (but what?) had slipped off into the swamp that Phragmites wished to pursue. The hunter stared off into the distance, squinting in hopes of catching sight of something, when he thought he glimpsed movement. Before his mind had time to process the image before him, Phragmites saw the same thing and bayed loudly. Only now did the hunter get a good look, and what he saw sent a chill down his spine. It was The Bird. The hunter grabbed Phragmites by the collar, leashed him, and whispered harshly "Hush boy!" to the dog, while he tried to collect his thoughts.

The Bird. Roy had talked about The Bird before. Everybody talked about The Bird. The Bird was not a bird, but was instead a rabbit. But he was not just any rabbit. As Roy had explained it, The Bird had lost one ear, years ago, to a shotgun blast from Old Man Humphrey's big 10 gauge. Why, you ask, would anybody hunt rabbits with a 10 gauge? Well, as Roy explained it, The Bird was no ordinary rabbit. For reasons unknown at the time, but that would become clear before the day was done, The Bird had ceased to eat carrots, lettuce and other ordinary bunny-fare. The Bird had become a predator, and it was when Old Man Humphrey had already lost two spring lambs and a Hereford calf to The Bird (though, of course, at the time he'd suspected a coyote or maybe even a bear, still reputed to roam these woods and hills now and then) that he pulled the old 10 gauge from the closet, loaded it with buckshot, and put it in the corner where he could reach it quickly. The night of the shooting, Humphrey heard the blood-curdling screams coming from the feedlot, grabbed the big gun, and ran out into the cold dark. Now of course Old Man Humphrey has been dead for years, but as he related the story to Roy, Humphrey saw The Bird (though, at that time, he was not yet called The Bird, nor anything else) clinging to the throat of one of his shoats. When the rabbit saw Humphrey, he let go of the now mortally wounded piglet and stood up on his hind legs. Humphrey fired and one of those balls ripped through the rabbit's left year, shearing it off cleanly at the base. According to Roy, and he always quotes Old Man Humphrey when relating the tale, "That old rabbit didn't even flinch. I'd just blowed his ear off, and he just stood his ground. Standin' there, against the moonlight with just the one good ear still standin' up, and him not backin' down at all, he looked somebody giving me the finger - you know what I'm sayin'? That one ear standin' up offa his head, it was like the old rabbit was just givin' me The Bird." With that, the rabbit turned and casually hopped off into the night. Old Man Humphrey picked up the ear he'd shot off, and when he died gave it to Roy. They say Humphrey's last words were "Kill that godamn rabbit for me, Roy", and Roy was determined to do so. And for a few years, he'd come close to doing just that, though it had cost him more than one good beagle. How The Bird did it, nobody knew because nobody saw it happen, but on more than one occasion, Roy heard a dog go silent mid-chase, only to come upon the poor thing split wide open from belly to chin, its guts hanging out. Tracks at the scene left no doubt that The Bird was responsible, for they were the same tracks (two small ones from the front feet, two large from the back feet) that were always found in the barn yards and feedlots when livestock had been killed.

The young hunter, before he was a hunter, would occasionally ask Roy to show him the now shriveled right ear, and Roy would pull it out of his shirt pocket, hold it up, and tell the boy the story of The Bird yet again. He never tired of hearing it, nor did Roy tire of telling it. But it had been years since anybody had seen The Bird, and with the exception of Roy (because he had hoped to kill him) the townspeople were perfectly happy to go on not seeing The Bird. In fact, most believed he had finally died of old age or perhaps been killed in a fight with a bear. But there was no doubt, none at all, that what the young hunter was now facing was The Bird. And this, of course, meant he faced a tough decision: he could pursue The Bird into the swamp, perhaps kill him, and finally prove to Roy and the world that Phragmites was a legitimate hunting dog. Or, he could do the smart thing and leave now, without risking his life or that of his dog. And indeed, it was this very thing that he'd intended to do when at that very moment, The Bird stood up on his hind legs and howled - a sound like no other, a sound that the hunter imagined must be The Sound of Hell. It was too much for Phragmites, who, having already allowed The Bird to bruise his canine ego, wanted nothing more than to kill that rabbit; Phragmites bolted, and the hunter, admittedly awestruck by The Bird's sinister howling, failed to hold on. Before the hunter knew what had happened, Phragmites had broken loose and was headed straight for The Bird. It would be impossible to shoot (and with what, the little .410 shotgun?!) without risk of hitting Phragmites, so there was nothing the hunter could do. The Bird saw Phragmites coming and turned to run, or so it appeared. No, in fact, The Bird had just turned so that his powerful rear feet were facing Phragmites, and with what was clearly a well-practiced move, The Bird sent Phragmites wheeling with a mighty blow from his feet. To his credit, Phragmites righted himself and before the hunter could get a shot off, was on The Bird again. This time, he anticipated The Bird's moves and leapt to the side, just as The Bird kicked. Phragmites turned, and in a split second had The Bird by the throat. The Bird in turn wheeled, and laid open Phragmites' flank, and the blood began to flood the ground. Phragmites was up again, but was clearly badly hurt and The Bird knew it. He rose again upon his hind legs, and would in an instant be upon Phragmites - when the hunter fired. The blast toppled The Bird but he was on his feet immediately, and coming for the hunter. The small shotgun was clearly no match for this particular rabbit, at least not at this range, so the hunter had no choice but to wait until The Bird was within just feet of the muzzle, whereupon he fired again. When the smoke had cleared and the hunter opened his eyes, there was an eerie silence. There, on the ground in front of him lay The Bird. He approached cautiously, as did Phragmites (who, despite being severely wounded was now on his feet). The hunter shoved the muzzle of the gun into the rabbit's side, and gave it a nudge. There was no movement. The Bird was dead.

The hunter collapsed to his knees and took Phragmites into his arms. The dog's wounds, though serious, would not be mortal. It was almost dark by now, and the hunter knew it would be a long night, so he stood and reached for The Bird. When he turned him over, he saw a sight so hideous, so grotesque, so utterly abominable, that he let out an audible gasp and dropped the rabbit. Even Phragmites, despite his pain, lept back with a start. For now that they could see the rabbit's face, they understood, for the first time, The Bird. Apparently, at a much younger age, The Bird had suffered a dental malocclusion, a condition in rabbits wherein the upper and lower incisors do not meet; this meeting of the incisors is essential for proper growth and development, for if they do not meet, and thereby provide the mutual grinding surfaces so necessary for keeping the teeth in check, the incisors will grow unabated. And indeed, because of this malocclusion, The Bird's face resembled not so much a rabbit but that of a wild boar, his lower teeth no longer teeth but now tusks - long, sharp tusks, covered now with the fresh blood of Phragmites and the stains of a hundred others before him. It was this gross deformity that explained his blood lust, for without the teeth typical of your garden-variety rabbit, The Bird was unable to eat vegetables. Forced, was he, to live the life of carnivore not by choice but by cruel fate. When this realization hit the young hunter, he felt a twinge of sympathy for the old rabbit, vilified for years for what he could not help (for what else could he do, but lay down and die, and would it be fair to expect any creature, no matter how hideous, to do so voluntarily?). But the reality was that The Bird was dead, for better or for worse, and it was time to head home.

When the hunter reached town and word of the kill spread, the townspeople gathered on the farm to view the now dead lagomorphic terror. At the sight of The Bird's frightening physiognamy, women fainted and children cried. The Bird had been hoisted up into a tree using a block and tackle, so large was he (no official weights were ever taken, but many there who helped lift him were convinced he was over five pounds, field-dressed, which would have put him at possible six pounds when alive). It wasn't until after midnight that most of the crowd had thinned. The young hunter was just heading into the house to feed Phragmites when Roy stepped into the light, walked over to the dog, and knelt down and with a grin said: "Well, I'll be godamned."

A young T.J. Brayshaw, Phragmites and "The Bird"

Please Go Away

2011-07-18T14:18:00.010-04:00

Katherine Hepburn had a sign outside her Old Saybrook mansion that said Please Go Away. I didn't much care for the actress until I heard this. It's for sale - the house and the sign. Readers with a loose 28 mill should probably consider making an offer and I will come round to kayak, fish and swim without being disturbed.

Summer is boring. It's between fishing and hunting seasons. Kids have to be greased up and coaxed into cancer prevention suits. My lovely lawn is gradually turning to dusty parchment in a reverse-phenological sign that spells C.R.A.P. F.I.S.H.I.N.G.. Of course, all you must do is rearrange these letters. Until then stripers will be a fickle late-night species less inclined to shoreline feeding. The Culvert is a pipe carrying stagnant bait soup on either tide. They say even The Mighty Block has been devoid of meaningful fishing. And forget trout: the Farmington River is the best part of a 3 hour air-conditioned trip away for a shot at mostly small stockies. It's a beautiful place but I just don't have the energy for such limited payback, you know? You may also know my rule of thumb never to travel more than half a mile to fish for SMB, principally because I think they look like little jobbies with fins. So that rules out the Housie.

Thank goodness for beautiful C.A.R.P. Me and Anonymous went out early Sunday morning, mostly because we didn't know what else to do outside in 90+ degree heat. We found carp and had multiple shots at them, which was very exciting. It reminded me that carp are a good fish if you're a pair of anglers; while one guy fishes the other spots for cruising fish and gives hushed but mildly panicked advice like "Shit look at the size of him - medium pace from 11 O'clock"; "Leading cast two feet above"; "No you fool, that was hopeless"; "The fish have all gone and we'll have to stand for another 20 fruitless minutes. Did you bring me a cigar?" Most weren't feeding fish - asses up, lips down - but occasionally they did turn to our flies only to veer away. One slurped in my white bugger and gave quite an exciting fight on the springy Hardy 4# and 5lb nylon. I felt lucky to land the thing.

Here is a better photograph.

The morning was about more than catching, which it often has to be when you don't catch anything. We saw a family of deer at water's edge; a kingfisher flitted hither and yon; beautiful Nymphaea alba was in fragrant flower; and Anonymous and I should both seek medical intervention or start eating less fibrous foods as soon as feasibly possible. Alas, instead we finished fishing and went to a local greasy spoon for eggs, bacon, home fries, and something they called coffee but I would not. It was a really lovely summer morning.

Local pond (As befits, Anonymous cannot quite be seen on the right)

White flower.

Now you've seen my pictures, so if you don't mind, until autumn, please go away.

English

"Slurp" magazine interviews Brayshaw

2011-07-14T10:52:00.003-04:00

Here we've reproduced the entire transcript from a recent interview of T.J. Brayshaw, conducted by "Slurp" magazine, the literary carp journal.

Slurp Interviewer: How would you describe your life right now?

T.J. Brayshaw: As sublime.

SI: Sublime? Can you elaborate?

TJB: Yes. Sublime, as in sub-lime, as in "less than, or below, a lime".

SI: There were some darker periods in your life, correct?

TJB: Well, yes, that is true, but not unusual, I don't think, for people like me.

SI: Is that a period you're willing to talk about? When and how did it start?

TJB: Yes, I can talk about it now. There was a time when I could not.

SI: What happened?

TJB: It started around 5 pm, I guess, on the 28th of May, 2011. I guess I hit rock bottom around 12:30am of the 29th.

SI: Can you elaborate? Why do you think these things happen to you?

TJB: Well, first you have to understand the crowd I was running with at the time, guys like English Jonny, Anonymous, you know.

SI: English Jonny is out again?

TJB: Oh yeah. He's back. Don't you read your magazine?

SI: Touche. What's he been doing?

TJB: Oh, he's a world traveler. Ridgefield, Storrs. Serotyping, shit like that.

SI: Serotyping?

TJB: Nevermind. Anyway, we'd been carp fishing, unsuccessfully, I might add. I think Faulkner was the one who said "Carp fishing is a slippery slurp to hell."

SI: That doesn't really sound like something Faulkner would say.

TJB: How would I know? Anyway, Anonymous suggested ribs. That was the beginning of the end.

SI: Ribs? I don't understand.

TJB: It's the pressure. You can really screw up ribs, you know. It was around that time, maybe 5 pm, when I started drinking again.

SI: And the ribs?

TJB: They were good. They really were. But by then the deed had been done.

SI: And how would you describe your life at that time?

TJB: Like a mug, fired black.

SI: It's been said that, at one time, you were quite a ladies' man. Is that true?

TJB: Well, I don't want to toot my own horn...

SI: So it is true?

TJB: Toot.

SI: Toot?

TJB: Teat.

SI: OK. Let's move on. Some of your critics charge that you've fabricated this entire interview, where you play the part of both interviewer and interviewee. Is there any validity to these charges?

TJB: Ha! It would seem to me that it would take a fairly strange, and quite vain, person to do something like that, don't you agree?

SI: Well, I guess I do agree. But you haven't really answered the question.

[At this point, Brayshaw storms out of the room, along with the Interviewer, then both return simultaneously.]

SI: I'm sorry to keep carping on about this, but what about the charges?

TJB: "Carping on." Ha ha. Real funny. What if they are true - does it matter?

SI: I think it does. I mean, aren't you painting a picture of somebody who isn't the real T.J. Brayshaw?

TJB: I'm not going to talk to you anymore.

SI: I'm not sure you have that option.

[At this point, the interview concludes, with both Brayshaw and the Interviewer leaving, again simultaneously.]

Well, there are always rock bass.

2011-07-11T13:46:00.002-04:00

(Or, thy Daily Slurp...)

More on building a fly fishing pram...

2011-07-06T12:59:00.001-04:00

[Editor's Note: This is a follow-up to an earlier post. You may wish to read that post first; if so, click here. If you believe you've reached this blog in error, and wish to get out as fast as possible, click here.)

The purpose of this post is, largely, to provide some heretofore neglected details about my pram, particularly for those considering such watercraft. Whether a pram is right for your fishing is something you'll need to decide, since no vessel is perfect for all kinds of fishing. I'll also neglect the question as to whether you should buy your pram or build it yourself, except to say that if your only goal is to have a pram and you've got unlimited funds, there are plenty of people out there willing to sell you one.

If you are thinking of building one, then your first consideration is what sort of design. I can only speak to the particular boat I built, which is the D4 (now called the D5 on their website, because of minor updates) from bateau.com. To me, this is a perfect design for a number of reasons. First, at seven feet, ten inches long and three feet, ten inches wide, it's plenty big for one person but no bigger than necessary. Second, the hull has enough "V" to cut through a bit of chop, but is still wide and flat enough that I find it plenty stable for casting and fishing while standing up. Some time ago, I saw a comment from somebody that the D4 pram is not stable; I find this completely untrue. I'm only five-seven and about 155 pounds, and because of my large testicles I also have a very low center of gravity, so perhaps these are the reasons I find the boat so stable. But I doubt it - this comment came from a pram manufacturer who loses a potential customer each time somebody builds him- or herself a pram, and I can't help but suspect this is the reason for his comment. Finally, the D4 plans were simple and the website has a useful discussion board. But, should you wish to consider other boat plans, they are out there.

Once you decide to build, you’ve got to choose the wood. I used what is called “BC” plywood, which simply means that one side is “Grade B” and the other side is “Grade C”, with plywoods typically being A, B, C, or D grade, A being very well finished, sanded, free of blemishes, etc. “BC” is pretty good plywood, better than typical construction-grade CD plywood. But…and this is an important but, BC is far from marine-grade plywood (typically AA grade). A pram made with BC plywood and good epoxy will be perfectly serviceable and cost much less, but the wood is less attractive, will be prone to some “checking” (developing small cracks – which might, possibly, need some future attention; see image below), and heavier. If I could (or when I) do it all over again, I would use quality marine plywood, such as Okoume or Meranti. These plywoods are considerably more expensive, and not always locally available (meaning you may also have to pay shipping costs) but superior in all other ways to “regular” plywood, such as the BC I used.

"Checking", i.e. small cracks; good marine plywood does not do this.

According to the plan designer, the D4 pram should come in at around 55 pounds – this is assuming no more epoxy than necessary, and light-weight, quality marine plywood. In addition to better, lighter plywood, I think I could have built the entire boat from 1/4 inch plywood. The plans called for 1/4 inch for the hull and 3/8 inch for frames and seat tops, which is what I used. However, the boat is much, much stronger than I’d expected it to be – there is simply no “flex” or “give” in the hull when I stand in it. This is, in part, because when you bend plywood pieces, then join them, the tension of all those bends working “against each other” adds rigidity. So, I suspect that if I’d built the entire boat from 1/4 inch plywood (or marine plywood, which comes in 4mm thicknesses…actually a bit less than 1/4 inch thick) it would have been considerably lighter, yet still plenty strong, for me at least.

I’ve never weighed my boat, but I am certain it weighs considerably more than the 55 pound “designed weight”. This makes little difference on the water, or even when I’m loading the boat on the car with the help of somebody else. But because the pram is, in some ways, already awkward to carry because of its dimensions, the added weight does not help. When I built the boat, I had a pick-up truck and loading it was simple. Now, with my small wagon and roof rack, I have to lift the boat to load and unload. I can do this, as shown below, but I always swear a bit when doing so.

If necessary, I lift the pram this way...

And carry it this way; can be done, but lacks a good balance point

The old days, when transport was easy.

I car-top it these days.

You’re going to need some tools; that said, you probably already have some or most of them (screwdrivers, for example), and could borrow the others. No “specialized” tools are necessary. I made virtually all of the cuts with a hand-held circular saw. The curves are such that the blade did not bind. For a few cuts, I used a jigsaw. A hand-held belt sander was a godsend. I also did some sanding with a small random-orbit sander. The holes for the “stitches” required a drill. I already owned most of these tools, but those I purchased for the boat still see plenty of use for other projects. Go ahead – you deserve some new tools.

A few steps, particularly the installation of the multi-layered rub rails, required a lot of clamps. I had a few clamps already, picked up a couple more strong clamps, but then made all of the other necessary clamps out of short (2-3 inches) sections of PVC pipe cut down the middle - a terribly clever idea that I wish I could take credit for, but alas, I cannae. The rub rails are made from three layers of long strips of plywood, and regularly spaced clamps were necessary to hold them to the boat’s curve while the epoxy cured.

An assortment of clamps

The homemade PVC clamps holding rub rail in place

You’re also going to use up a lot of “expendable” supplies. The fiberglass tape is one of these things, and the epoxy is another; here you do not want to cut corners. Use epoxy designed for this kind of boat building. I used System Three, which is what bateau.com sells. You’ll need “wood flour”, which you’ll mix with epoxy to fill the gaps between plywood panels. I purchased fine wood flour from bateau.com for most of the work, but I did save the finer sawdust from my random orbit sander’s bag as well. If you have a source for fine sawdust, you might be able to avoid buying wood flour. The epoxy is messy, so I found it usually easier to throw away things like gloves, plastic bags, mixing cups and plastic spoons, t-shirts, etc., rather than worry about cleaning epoxy at the end of each work session. Figure you’re going to spend some money on this sort of crap.

Don’t forget those little things, such as oarlocks, if you intend to row the pram. If you’re going to power it with a small electric (or gas) outboard, you’ll want to reinforce the transom a bit with another layer or two of plywood. When the boat is finished, you’ll have to decide whether to stain it to preserve the natural look of the wood, or paint it. If you like the natural look, you’ll need to treat the epoxy with a UV blocker, else the sun will damage the epoxy. If you paint it, use good primer and paint designed for boats. This stuff ain’t cheap, but I think it’s worth it. I’ve had my boat eight years, and it’s nowhere near in need of a paint job.

It's also nice to have a way to wheel the pram from place to place. I tend to store the boat with a set of wheels clamped to the transom (stern). These are handy for getting the boat from, say, the garage to the car. But they don't work well on anything but the flattest surface, and the boat is hard to maneuver with these wheels. A modified kayak or canoe cart - the kind with larger spoked wheels - works better. A pram is too wide to fit one of these carts very well, but I've seen a few clever modifications that work well with prams. With the spoked-wheel cart in place, such that the pram is balanced, you can wheel it around with little effort and, since it's right-side up, you can load it with your stuff.

Stern-clamp wheels; they work, but not terribly well.

Finally, here is a somewhat random list of some of the things that I either know I would do differently, were I to build another pram, or that I might consider doing differently.

- Use marine plywood (absolutely), all in 4mm thickness (probably)

- Cut bow and stern transoms flush? As you can see in some of the photos, the bow and stern transoms have a curve along the top. I don’t know if this is functional or just aesthetic, but I find that sometimes these extra inches catch on the roof rack during loading and unloading. On the other hand, when upside down the boat rests on these “points”, thus reducing how much of the boat gets scratched up. I’m not sure how I might handle this in the future.

- Storage compartments? Sometimes, I pile too much shit into the boat, which then catches the fly line while casting, and just results in too much clutter. During the building, I considered either making or buying some sort of hatch covers so I could use the spaces under the seats for storage, but I was too impatient. In hindsight, I wish I’d done that. I still could, I suppose, but I probably won’t now that the boat is finished.

Too much crap in the boat (fish is a spotted bay bass, by the way)

- Glass the entire bottom? For larger boats, and even some smaller boats, many builders will cover the entire bottom of the boat in a layer of fiberglass and epoxy. This helps protect the boat against scratches, dents and dings from rocks. As you’d expect, though, it will add considerable weight. For me, this added protection has never seemed as if it would have been worth the added weight, but were I to use the pram regularly on rocky, swifter rivers, then this might make sense.

- An anchor system? I simply carry a cheap mushroom anchor in a bucket, and tie the anchor rope to the boat through one of the various holes built into the “knees”, and this works well enough. However, I have seen some nifty little anchor pulleys mounted on the bows of some other prams that allow the user to raise and lower the anchor without ever getting up off the seat. The possible downside to such a system that I can imagine is that it will catch on the roof rack during loading or unloading – but an anchor system could be a nice little luxury if it would work.

Finally, consider that the boat will get dirty and will need to be washed. Small children like to do this, but you must consider them a long-term investment. I'm not sure I've gotten my money's worth yet.

Small child washes pram

Another way (not) to catch carp

2011-07-05T15:52:00.002-04:00

People often ask me "T.J., is there just one way to lose a carp?", to which I reply "Absolutely not - there are many, many ways to screw things up, and it's the wise fisherman who has a full quiver of options!"

They will also say things like "And isn't it enough just to have hooked a carp? To just be on the water, enjoying nature's bounty?", to which I will reply "That's the stupidest fucking thing I've ever heard."

Messing about in boats

2011-06-29T17:00:00.002-04:00

"Believe me, my young friend, there is nothing - absolutely nothing - half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats."

(Rat to Mole, from Grahame's "The Wind in the Willows")

I am supposed to be writing "How to" (and "When to" and "Where to") articles, but I've gotten side-tracked with stories, "How (not) to" articles, and other such crap. My apologies. Here's a "How to"...

Several years ago I was living in California, and regularly fishing harbors from rental boats. This got too expensive, so I started fishing from a pontoon. A pontoon is great, in many ways, but it has some drawbacks as well. For starters, one sits low in the water. Personally, I don't care for this because it limits my visibility, but even more because I really prefer to stand up when casting or landing fish. There's also a limit to how much one can carry along, and pontoons aren't terribly efficient to row, either. However, my own motivation for finding alternative watercraft was that I didn't fancy a 500 pound sea lion in my lap, and I'd come too close to realizing this possibility on several occasions. A kayak was simply out of the question (they're yellow).

Very small (usually 8 feet long) flat-fronted boats, called prams, have a long history among fly fishermen. These little boats are light enough to be loaded onto a car roof and to be carried (or wheeled) to the water, but large enough that you can toss all manner of shit into them. And being of wide beam (usually about three feet), they are stable enough to stand in safely. These features made them particularly popular among the salmon, steelhead and striper anglers of California.

Eel River, California (Photo: Conrad Calimpong; "Rivers of a Lost Coast" website)

Bill Schaadt with a large salmon (Photo: Dan Blanton)

The old prams were often wooden, then later aluminum, and now many commercially available ones are made of fiberglass and other modern lightweight materials. But these were beyond my reach, financially, at the time so a friend of mine suggested I build one. Keith is, literally, a rocket scientist and when a rocket scientist says "It'll be easy", it's not entirely clear how you're to respond. But he explained how it can be done, I became intrigued, and decided to give it a whirl.

I chose to use a method known as "stitch-and-glue". Stitch-and-glue is simple in principle and in practice. One cuts plywood panels according to established measurements, and these panels are then stitched together using wire or, in many cases, those tough little nylon electrician's cable ties. Then, fiberglass tape and an epoxy/sawdust mix are used to join, or "glue", the adjoining plywood panels. Ultimately, these joints are smoothed and then the entire boat is covered in special epoxy, which waterproofs it. I built mine in about five weeks, working mostly just on weekends.

Fitting a curve for one of the bottom panels

Sides and inside frames in place

The bow, showing the "stitches"; the gaps will be filled later.

Just waiting for the paint job

I've since fished the boat on both the Pacific and Atlantic coasts, as well as in a number of rivers, reservoirs and ponds.

Pacific Ocean

Releasing a largemouth bass on a California reservoir

Fishing for early spring stripers on a Connecticut coastal river

Waiting at river's edge, Connecticut

When I started to build this boat, my motivations were entirely practical. In the end, however, I loved the building process more than I could have imagined. There is a satisfaction that comes from using things one has made oneself, and if you tie your own flies or build your own rods, you certainly know this. I do both, but the satisfaction I get from those things pales in comparison to that I get from fishing from this boat.

[Follow-up post, with more building details.]

Could it be.....?

2011-06-28T20:32:00.001-04:00

I was enjoying this rather nice article in Sunday's New York Times. Then, in the third paragraph from the end, I darn near lost my breakfast.

???

How (not) to catch carp

2011-06-28T13:59:00.003-04:00

Carp fishing and iMovie software: I am equally proficient.

The Old Man and the Sea

2011-06-27T09:00:00.007-04:00

I can count the number of times I've been out on my "new" kayak on one and a half hands. TJ and I had great plans to float a local river - a spot, incidentally, where reports now have it that 30lb stripers are "in thick" (this is a teaser to remind him to move the hell back to the CT coast) - but we got waylaid by instruments of torture. Todd and I have been planning a float for Lord knows how long, and last night we got our shit together, motivated by the sight of The Yankee having all the fun. It was Todd's 40th birthday and we wanted to get him a nice fish. You're familiar with the usual ritual about wanting to catch fish, of course. It's always worth saying as a mark of friendly intent, but everyone knows it's a bit of an angling curse; a long shot at best, especially with the fly rod handicap.

Those first few minutes afloat are always a little strange. Are those waves coming into the boat? If they keep coming at this rate, how long until I fill up and drown? Is it choppier where we're heading? Will this be the night I hurl?

Todd's boat is heavier than mine because he carries a lot more shit

We fished for a few hours seeing sporadic explosions of single fish (sporadic is a word anglers use to make "almost none" sound strategic). But it was great to be afloat and I was delighted with the performance of my kayak - a Chevy to Todd's Hobie Cadillac, but an almost perfect fishing boat. It was dusk before we saw the first action - we were just bobbing around wondering whether we should move, or go find a beer (stupid Sunday law that) when in the middle distance a 200 yard breadth of white explosions had us working the oars like men who have just seen a blitz would work some oars. Then something cool happened. Todd cast out his other rod - I won't get all Prosek describing this thing: it has a big hook at the end. No fur. No fly. Anyway, first cast through the bait ball and the rod buckles over, and tows poor Todd a merry dance for a good while. I've never seen a bunker do that, but the snap that followed suggested a large blue had inhaled the bait as soon as it was impaled. We never saw the fish, but Todd celebrated anyway by losing his paddle. My stalk, sight and recapture where the finest of the night (okay, bar one).

A break to reclaim my backside

Encouraging, but we're not sure what happens next. It's a peculiarity of fishing from a kayak in open water that everywhere looks the same while the spot you're in is usually the least inspiring. If you just paddle further you'll find fish. So we paddled in a bit and started to see bigger fish having dinner. I pricked a few that could have been bunker, or were they bass phased by my wire trace? It didn't matter, because I wanted Todd to get a fish, and that's exactly what happened next. Having switched back to the fly rod - an inspired move! - for the next several minutes Todd lay siege with a brutish animal, which we assumed to be a bass by its deep diving and deliberate runs. He has a rudder on his boat, so at least he could dictate which direction to be towed in (just think about that - Todd may be slight, but his boat must weigh 90lbs. And they ask why we go fishing?) Finally the beast came up and we saw that wonderful big head and shoulders followed by three feet of glorious fish.

High fives were exchanged - don't ask, it was just the right thing to do, there was no-one about. Fireworks lit up the long night sky as we paddled in - like the fish, just like I'd ordered. Sometimes it works out very nicely like that, and Todd was real happy. If you have to turn 40, this is about as good a way to do it, I guess.

Trolling is illegal in the State of Connecticut.


Kayaking on a calm evening. You just gotta do this.

What a beauty.

The Old Man.

Jonny

Water-monks these...

2011-06-26T22:19:00.000-04:00

Carp

On the river bottom,
the carp have blown out
all the candles.

They whisper along
over the closed, black
bibles of clams.

Water-monks these,
with mouths like those
of angels singing,

but not angelic,
so very naked now
in darkness,

their cool, hard bodies
touching, among
the tapestries of weed.

[From "Flying at Night: Poems 1965-1985", by Ted Kooser, Poet Laureate of the United States, 2004-2006]

All the Old Feeling

2011-06-26T19:09:00.005-04:00

He tried to read it. Nothing was clear.

He went to the fridge, the one with the beer. He picked one. It seemed like the right choice. It was a cold one. He was a better reader when he had been drinking. He felt all the old feeling. He said to himself, "Z, this one's for you." It all became so clear.

Partial Recovery

2011-06-21T13:40:00.003-04:00

It's been several weeks now, since I returned from my visit with English Jonny, Anonymous, Z, the Fair River Maidens, et al., and I am partially recovered. A good ale is once again a treat to be savored. Unfortunately, a whiff of whiskey, or of whisky (Yes, both kinds. Kids, do not try that at home.), still does not sit well.

In fact, the smell of my banjo elicits a similar visceral reaction. It may be some time before I touch bottle or banjo.

Signs are good

2011-06-19T10:47:00.005-04:00

You know you had a good night. It's 4am and you're punching your own face to stay awake on I95. It's real late, but it's Father's Day and you'll have their grace tomorrow. You are returning with the same amount of beer as you took. Fingers on your left hand are cut where multiple fish were brought in and you think about getting that Boga after all. Last night you did a headlamp check of knuckles and fingers to see they were not cracked or at unusual angles after that last fish defied your tight drag. The fish fought harder than I ever recall; all requiring the rod butt. Fisherman's Fall, in June.

You are returning home from Rhode Island with seaweed in a wash basin and some flies that have 50% less to them than they did earlier. Your greatest 'concern' these last 2 hours was keeping your hooked fish apart from your buddy's hooked fish. You are convinced, at least this time, that surf guys can keep the bigger fish because they're not having as much sport, pound for pound, as you are on a fly rod. Last night the fly rod was king.

Seaweed and beer - signs you've had it good.

A blur in Rhode Island

Jonny

Carp Cathedral

2011-06-18T15:43:00.003-04:00

We had quite the intense but brief storm last night, so I expected the water to be higher this morning, and it was. But it was manageable. Thick fog and near 100% humidity made for an interesting walk in the woods. I explored a lot of stream-side bottom land today, saw a lot of carp, missed one take, and found a large sycamore. I came home soaked to the bone and stinking of sweat and muck, but unfortunately, not of fish. But the new water I found has a lot of potential. I particularly liked the wide, flat pool with the high open canopy, where the sun tried to penetrate the fog. It had a cathedral-like feel to it...a carp cathedral.

More Low Bred Grossness

2011-06-15T21:42:00.004-04:00

I have a confession to make. In my last slurp* post, I claimed to have caught a carp during a quick trip to the grocery store. The truth is that I reached for the leader, at which point the tippet parted, sending both carp and my fly back into the murky depths. It just didn't seem like important information at the time, at least not information that you, Gentle Reader, needed to know. But the guilt has gotten to me**.

Plus, it makes the next story better. Two days later, I was back at the store and decided to take a peek: a carp! In the exact same spot! Could it be?

I scrambled over the concrete rubble, positioned myself, and pitched my fly. The carp took the fly, came to the surface, and in that brief instant I spied not only the fly to which I was currently attached, but also the rusty red fly from 48 hours previous!

No, that's not how it happened. I can't stand the lies any longer. The carp did take the fly, but it came unhooked immediately, and I never saw the fly. But it was probably the same fish.

Now, I have lost two fish from the same spot. This won't do. To a new spot I went, where soon I spied a feeding carp. I got a good slurp from this fish, but the shakes revealed this carp to be very small. Until it wasn't. After an initially uninspired fight of a few seconds, this carp made a bee-line for some very thick cover - a series of partially submerged trees, really. If I could turn this fish, it could be mine. But I couldn't, and it wasn't. When the carp finally surfaced to thrash about, it was so far back into the trees that I knew immediately that this was soon to come to and end, and so it did: pop goes the tippet, and another carp now swims adorned with a Brayshaw lip ornament.

Today, during my lunch hour, I returned to this place but found nobody home. A hike upstream, to new water, eventually revealed some carp. A brace of carp spooked, but then a bit upstream I spotted this shallow-water feeder.

I got above this fish, crept low, and knelt within range. It was feeding in just inches of water, and inches from the bank, such that the cast that produced a slurp involved no fly line in the water at all. An explosion of water, mud and scales followed but despite the gesticulations, this fish decided not to break for cover, and was landed in short order. I know that the appeal in carp fishing for so many fly fishers is the potential for long, fast runs but those of you who have tangled with carp in small water near tight cover know that this is really good shit.

[Editor's Notes: * carp do not strike flies, they slurp them: see minute XXX of the Brayshaw interview; ** it's interesting that he feels guilty about this, but not about deceiving his wife, isn't it?]

What good is a cat?

2011-06-13T13:15:00.006-04:00

Some time ago, English Jonny asked me a very good question: "T.J., you have a cat. Why? A cat provides nothing but hair everywhere, and the untimely view of an anus at the breakfast table. What good is a cat?"

Before I could answer, his wife replied: "Ha! The answer then must be the same to 'What good is a husband.'

I spit out my toast and jam, but promised to ponder the question.

Now, I have a good answer.

Low breeding and vulgar quality

2011-06-11T21:40:00.010-04:00

"It is self-evident that no fish that inhabit foul or sluggish waters can be 'game-fish'. It is impossible from the very circumstances of their surroundings and associations. They may flash with tinsel and tawdry attire; they may strike with the brute force of a blacksmith, or exhibit the dexterity of a prize-fighter, but their low breeding and vulgar quality cannot be mistaken. Their haunts, their very food and manner of eating betray their grossness."

C. Hallock, author of "The Fishing Tourist" (1873)

I mean no offense Brother Hallock, but that's just rubbish. Take, for example, the last carp that I caught. Here's how it happened. My wife and I were planning the birthday party of my 5 year old son. The party was scheduled for 2 pm. At 9 am, my wife sent me to the grocery store to fetch a few last-minute items. As it turns out, the stream runs just past the grocery store parking lot...so after picking up my items, I naturally detoured across the parking lot to take a look. There, under a some over-hanging branches (which, I later learned, held mulberries...Oh! What joy!), were three feeding carp. My vittles were frozen, so I could only sigh, avert my gaze, and head home.

But! At 11 am, my wife asks if I wouldn't mind running to the store for just one more forgotten item. "I know you were just there, Honey, but I really need just one more thing," she pleaded. I hemmed and hawed a bit, rolled my eyes appropriately, then sprinted for the car, but not before a quick (but unseen) detour to grab the fly rod.

When I smelled the diesel fumes of the delivery trucks, I knew I was close.

I crept to the edge, peaked over, and there 'twas, the most wonderful of sights: low-bred, vulgar scaly grossness, actively feeding and oblivious to my presence. Who needs crystal clear mountain streams when you have this?

The water was so off-color (though I now refer to this pea soup as "on-color") that I was able to creep to within just a few feet of my target, and it took just two or three casts to get the presentation I wanted. The carp slurped the fly in, I set the hook, and it shot across the stream, leaving a groove in my line-hand that it still evident today, several days later. Once across the stream, the carp nosed up under the opposite bank...and would not move. When finally I managed to loosen my line, I could no longer feel the fish but instead only a branch. Defeated...or so I thought. But when I untangled the branch from my line, I saw that the leader continued upstream, and soon the carp was fighting again. Up to the rubble it came, a quick release followed, the fly rod was stashed, item purchased, and I returned home, my wife none the wiser. I had pulled off a double deception in less than fifteen minutes. If that's not 'game', I don't know what is.

Fishing Covered Bridges

2011-06-08T09:27:00.006-04:00

"Come down here Jonny, by the river. There’s plenty of room,” I said to English Jonny on a recent fishing trip.

“Why?” he replied. “I can fish just fine from up here. In fact, from up here I stay out of the sun, but what’s more, I have a much better view of the fish. Why, there’s one right there…got ‘im!!”

“Jonny – that you caught that fish is fairly remarkable, but what I find astonishing is that you can make such long, graceful casts from inside that covered bridge. How do you do that!?” I inquired.

“T.J.,”, he replied, “I have been fishing covered bridges for decades. It’s really quite simple. You see, this bridge is built with windows on both sides, aligned perfectly. I simply stand in the center of the bridge, place my back cast through the window behind me and my forward cast through this window here in front of me.”

“And if there isn’t a window behind you for your back cast?” I asked.

“Oh, then you must use a roll cast.”

Carp Fishing in America*

2011-05-19T16:20:00.004-04:00

Many** of our readers have inquired as to how I first met English Jonny. I was in the Cleveland Wrecking Yard, shopping for another method of making walnut catsup.

English Jonny tapped me on the shoulder.

"Excuse me," he said. "I thought you were a carp fly."

"I'm not," I said.

Then he wrote "Carp Fishing in America" on the back of my shirt.

[Editor's Notes: *This makes no sense to you now, I know. But it will. Also: **None]

Getting Ready, # 3

2011-05-19T10:16:00.007-04:00

Jonny,

We should consider lamb. Below, I have reproduced some correspondence from a man we'll simply call "Sam", out of respect for his anonymity. This "Sam" was my personal chef for almost twenty years, and still cooks an occasional meal for me. He's probably responsible for many of my faults as well, but on balance, his influence has been positive. The recipe, in its entirety, cannot be printed here because many of The Culvert's readers are women and children, but I will reproduce enough of it to allow you to start getting the house ready. That is, you can replace the caulking on the windows.

T.J.

Spring is the time of year that our thoughts turn to... LAMB!

Although my local store carries some lamb throughout the year, mostly Leg o' Lamb, (not my favorite because I can't eat one all by myself at one sitting), in the spring I find more choices.

Recently the store has been carrying lots of Racks o' Lamb at their usual obscene prices, but I have become savvy enough to note the “Sell by “ dates. I put a Post It note on my kitchen cabinet, and on the day of that date or the day before, they usually reduce the price by about 30 to 40%. That's when I go to buy them and right now I have a Bunch o' Them in my freezer. I love them...all eight ribs at one meal.

For a more leisurely cooking day, I love lamb shanks. I've made them many ways and they are always successful among people who aren't prejudiced by a conviction that lamb is too “gamey”. It's interesting that some of those “lamb is too gamey” people eat venison, but usually only after it is converted to “Venison Summer Sausage”. “Rack o' Venison”, if you can find it, or venison tenderloin butchered well the way "Wayne" does it, tastes like beef and can be fork-tender, when cooked rare. Most other people's “gamey” venison tastes the way it does because they threw it in the back of their pick up truck, drove all over the county on a warm day in the fall to show it off, got drunk, parked the truck in the sun and took a twelve hour nap. After that, the venison isn't “gamey”, it's half rotten.

I digress... back to lamb.

Lamb shanks are yummy, maybe my favorite cut, and the enclosed is my favorite recipe, especially in warmer months. The recipe may appear daunting, but even if it is, every step in the chain is worth the outcome. The cooking time of the lamb, once it gets to the oven, is 4 hours, so there is plenty of time in the meantime to do the other steps.

I advise, even during warm weather, that you keep your home windows closed while this cooks...for two reasons:

1. If you let the smell escape, you are wasting it.

2. If the smell escapes, your down-wind neighbors will be lining up, inviting themselves into your kitchen to demand a "wee taste".

At least one short cut: use canned, well rinsed cannellini beans or great northern beans instead of starting with the dried beans. In Step 4, reduce the cooking time of the beans with the bouquet garni to 30 minutes at a bare simmer, but simmer the garni in the water ahead of time for 15 minutes before adding the beans. Starting from scratch with dried beans is better, but we all have other lives to live. Eg. once the shanks in their pot get to the point where the aroma fills the house, you will want to have sex, and it is a good time for it since you have 3 hours to accomplish it, assuming that you have already done the necessary prep work. Remember “If you have an erection lasting more than 4 hours, seek immediate medical attention.” So plan ahead. That whole issue scares the hell out of me. How long after 4 hours is too late to be “immediate”? If I'm too late to be immediate, what will happen? What constitutes “medical attention”? Will the “Home Health Visiting Nurse Services” qualify? What might she look like? Could that issue complicate (or facilitate) a resolution of the emergency?

Best of luck,

"Sam"

*Dapping with Herring Under a Bridge at Night

2011-05-16T12:11:00.002-04:00

It's the latest craze - and it is entirely awesome. Near my house is a 7' channel that drains a large salt pond. Over the channel is a railroad line and stone bridge with large stepped abutments that make the most delightful perch 4 feet above water. On an outgoing tide, and when it is very dark, beneath the abutment there be striped bass that pop and roll in the moonlight. It is a weirdly magical scene. But angling here is the good part, as it really is angling. The outgoing tide moves left-right and the fish are often only a half rod-length away. Think about that: you're 4' above the water facing a 7' wide channel, sitting down on a nice stone chair, with stripers rising at your feet. Aided by the stone acoustics, the fish pop so loud it's kinda scary, like you're in the wrong place at someone else's dinner time. Water sprays up when the bass inhale shrimp and other meals - you get a smelly striper shower. It's a unique place.

Casting for these fish, in the traditional sense, doesn't much work. One needs to channel one's deepest Huck Finn. A sort of *dapping approach seems to work, with only 3 feet of fly line protruding to a short leader (it's all rather comical, like dangling a fake spider from a tree, but with a stone tuffet. In fact, when a train streams past it fair scares the crap out from me.) A quick flip up-stream sets the cast under the bridge, then, being a righty, the rod goes over my left shoulder then lowered down and threaded up underneath and inside the bridge. Thus the fly drifts down to the fish, which, let's remember, are under my feet. I feel like some kind of performance artist explaining this shit.

I caught four bass on various flies this way, walking each gracefully down my sandstone steps for a release akin to the perennially dapper (!) Peter Bowles retrieving The Daily Telegraph from his door step in To the Manor Born. Next time I'm thinking the smoking jacket, cravat and slippers.

Rare photograph of English Jonny and his Wife

The next toy to play with was a 12" herring fly given to me by friend and uber-enthusiast Steve Culton. You know him; he's very tall with an audible smile. His herring looked great in the water; flowing broadside it looked like a big lazy fish. But damn, if it didn't take on a new life when fished just like a jig! Because, dearest Culvertites, this fly is 100% flexible being as it is tied in the flat-wing-stylee-of-yore. If one emulates the jigger man, with line dead vertical, you can make the "fly" do loops and circles around itself, just like a real fish if it were riddled with mad cow disease. From my perch, I could make this toy perform intricate synchronized patterns right under the rod tip. That it didn't draw a strike is wholly incidental, I'm sure you'll agree.

See you under The Bridge.

Jonny

*Patent pending. I'm thinking of calling this Culvert Nymphing to keep track with the modern malaise for similarly bogus inventions.

New Perspectives

2011-05-16T09:25:00.016-04:00

Although in many ways I am back home, being now just a few hours from where I grew up and fishing streams that look like those of my childhood, nothing really feels familiar. I fished small midwestern streams with worm and bobber then and rarely caught anything other than small sunfish and creek chubs. Approaching my new and current "homewaters" with a fly rod in hand and an eye out for carp and smallmouth bass is as new as can be. I've traded plenty of back cast room and a ten weight rod for tight quarters and a four weight.

New is humbling, but new is fun. I haven't yet figured out why one spot gives up multiple fish and another produces nothing, and I may never figure this out. But I've been playing the odds with enough success to keep me coming back.

Thursday I fished thirty minutes at lunch time and got nothing, then went back that evening, to the same location, and watched as smallmouth bass and rock bass pushed wakes in an effort to eat my flies.

On Sunday I badly needed to clear my head of something, so I spent several hours stalking carp. Jim Harrison once said something to the effect that few of us shoot ourselves during an evening hatch. An afternoon slurp turns out to be equally effective medicine. I highly recommend it. Many carp refused my flies, but one did not and I am a happy camper.