Golden Mountain Sky

Allegro

The morning burned golden on the mountain in the sky.  In the semi-polarized light, Angus saw the wake and the fish rolled.  His line never tightened, but he saw the broad tail.  At that moment, his cerebral cortex said “Aww, fuck it” and his amygdala began the slow but deliberate process of taking over Angus’s brain case.

Adagio

At first, it was just the fish.  Then it was the fish on that fly.  Soon, Angus could envision the cast, the mends, the take – and he became unable to distinguish his daydreams from his ability to predict the future.  Once, when a different fish took the fly and broke him off, he became despondent.  He beat his wife Sarah senseless, went on a three-day bender, and then decided it wasn’t possible for his fish to break him off.  The very fact that the fish broke him off became proof that it wasn’t his fish.  Angus was a true believer.

Scherzo

On the twenty-third day of the seventh month of the second year that he pursued this peculiar form of perfection, Angus needed money.  Although he hadn’t slept for several days, it was dark and there really was no excuse for the long piece of iron rebar that jutted into the parking space at the Quik-E-Mart. As Angus pulled into the space, the rebar punctured the already rusted floor of his car, just missing his balls.  He pulled the rebar from the car, and entered the store.  There, he explained what had happened. 

“Listen,” he said. “I could use about $50, and I could use it a lot more than you could use a lawsuit.”

The night manager, a pock-marked, pot-bellied greasy man, looked at Angus side-ways and replied “Listen.  I could use you to go fuck your…” but before he could finish, Angus’s cerebellum, now a servant to his increasingly reptilian brain, had instructed Angus to execute a perfect Single-Spey with the 7 foot piece of rebar, and this struck the night manager in the temple, killing him instantly.  Angus reached across the counter and began pulling money from the register.

In a back room, the cashier and the ice-delivery kid shared a joint. It took a moment for the cashier to process what he had seen on the closed-circuit television, but when he had, he grabbed the ice kid by the sleeve and together they entered the store and approached Angus.  At this point, Angus turned and this put the approaching men “river right”, so to speak, and the first motion of his Double-Spey caught the ice kid across the forehead, ending his ice-delivering days abruptly.  The second motion of the cast took off the cashier’s nose, which hit the glass door of the beer cooler and slowly slid to the floor.

Rondo

Angus did not return home the night of the speying, nor the next, nor any other night after that.  Sarah found his fishing diary, the one labeled “VI”, but could make no sense of it.  Each day had an entry, but every entry was the same and contained just numbers separated by forward slashes: “Oct. 5: 6,788/10,456/1/0.”  It was only later, after Sarah had found the journal labeled “III” that she realized the first number was "casts", the second "mends", the third was "fished moved", and the last referred to the takes.  This number was always zero, because Angus didn’t count takes that came from other fish.

Ravioli

When the authorities caught up with him, he was standing in the same spot where he had stood virtually every day for the last three years.  They watched him from high on the canyon rim, two through binoculars and one through the scope of a Remington 700 PSS in .308 caliber.  They watched him make the same cast, over and over, and marveled at how, each time, the fly line landed in the same place.  Of course, that wasn’t entirely true because on occasion, much to his disgust, Angus did not make the same cast or the same mends.  But only he knew this because to anybody else, they were perfect replicates.  Even if somebody had seen all of them- all 9,936,506 of them – they’d have never noticed which ones were wrong.

The captain shouted at Angus to drop his fishing pole and freeze, but at that instant the line went tight so naturally, Angus set the hook.  To the captain, it appeared as if Angus were drawing a weapon, so he whispered to the sniper to “Take him”, and a loud crack split the air and echoed through the canyon.  Angus’s feet slipped from beneath him and he slid into the water.  The captain congratulated the deputy on a nice shot, but the deputy replied “I never pulled the trigger.”  Across the water, the lawmen saw a giant fish leap, the fly and broken leader clearly visible in the fish’s huge mouth.

La fine

High up in the trees, two jays are scolding a third, who is down by the river, picking at a piece of Gore-tex stuck in the river rocks.  A dipper leaps from his wet perch into the river.  The fading light reflects off of the water like the embers of a dying fire, and a heron wades the shallows quietly as night falls.

[This piece was published in a slightly different form in the Spring 2013 issue of "The Drake" magazine.  Thanks to Tom Bie and "The Drake" for putting it out there.]

Polar Bear Hunting

On Saturday I went to the North Pole and shot a polar bear. This is how my young son described my recent steelhead trip to Pulaski to his teacher, who felt the need to check with his mother, just to make sure. This theme is not going to percolate throughout or reappear at the end of this post. I just want to mention the effect that a visit to Cabelas, and a father's fishing trip, can have on a young mind.

The banks of the Salmon River in Pulaski are covered in shit. Balls of nylon, hooks everywhere, polystyrene cups, pink rubber worms. Most of the rocks on the riverbed are scarred not by ice or saltation, one of two terms (drumlins the other) I now recall from geography class, but by Corkers and carbide boot studs. You're as likely to get hung up on someone's lost rig as you are a rock. At some point this past weekend, Steve Z and I wandered into a conversation about what the fish must think of the riverbed littered with sinkers and other dense junk. 

Sunday was a bust, but the fishing was nice. Zakur and I fished the runs behind the place, while Todd and the other Steve walked north. Fish weren't in the usual places and a man from Korea said that four week's ago you could walk across them. A bastard, that. Still, with a morning cigar to take away the taste of plastic breakfast, and Zakur's JetBoil for real coffee by the river, we were quite happy. That day I hooked two steelhead, one of which I fought for a while, and foul hooked a large brown. Across the party our numbers were very low, but the weather was warm. 

Monday was a great day. We'd walked into the place where it all went right in 2010 and found it packed with anglers. But fish were said to be holding in the transition water, whatever that is, so we walked and found room at the top of Bob's Honey Hole. It was in the mid-60s and the fish began to bite late morning and kept our interest until dusk. I hooked 8 fish and was lucky to land two. 

- o -

Pulaski is the most beautiful place on earth and I want to live there. It has everything I need. The first steelhead went about 7 or 8 pounds. It jumped, ran, and pulled hard. I played it gently down the run and into the belly of the pool as other gentlemen stepped aside to let us pass. At some point I realized I was still connected to the fish (this hadn't happened last year), and I saw the top portion of its spotted tail emerge from the water a good distance behind my line. Z was the perfect partner with me all the way with the landing glove and camera on hand. 

Among the other fish I hooked and lost that day I remember one. I hooked it at the top of a fast funnel of water and it turned downstream and took my whole fly line with it in no more than four seconds. It jumped twice and was big. I remember setting my drag tight but I'm coming to realize that the pull I give my line to test it just isn't enough. Many of the steelhead you hook on the Salmon are wonderfully un-catchable. 

Later that day I landed a better fish that was going on 12 pounds, give or take. It was a carbon copy of the first, though I noticed I'd gotten better at playing them, adding side-strain and the like. Its tail was even further from the fly and my legs were shaking the way they do when you're in trouble.  I also have a fond memory of two grown men trying to contain that fish in the shallows. And ultimately failing.

- o -

The last day it was gray and 36 degrees. We got to the river at 6.30am; the same pool as the day before, obviously. Two men picked up their pace to ensure they beat us to the better runs. I hooked and landed a brown of about 3 or 4 pounds; an otherwise glass case specimen that I dragged in with little ceremony. The boys below reported slow going. At 10.15am some cigars and coffee were taken streamside. We would give it another 15 minutes then end the trip. We re-entered the water and on the first cast I hooked a fine steelhead, which I was able to play down once more to the belly of the pool, where Zakur gloved it. I wish it'd been his. It was around 6 or so pounds and quite the most perfect looking thing you’d ever dream to catch.

Shit Food

The hardship of shit food and living in a single room with 4 guys becomes enjoyable enough that I feel quite despondent to be back at work, and it’s all because of these fish. They are the best I will ever hook; better fighters and every bit as pretty as the most pristine Atlantic Salmon. They make re-entry hard. My enthusiasm for career wanes and I wonder out loud if my kids would like to grow a little quicker so they can tag along to legitimize my weakness. 

  

Jonny  

Just another 15 minutes

Z Fisher Fishes

Largest

Thought he was mine

Wrong

A crooked line

The Salmon River, Pulaski.

Old Photos

I like old fishing and hunting photos, and I like the oldest ones the best.  It's impossible to deny the wonder of the digital camera, but it takes something away from fishing and hunting photos.  I don't know what it is that it takes away, but it's real.  I think it's the smell of cigar smoke, outboard exhaust and Hoppe's No. 9 gun cleaning solvent.  I can smell those things in these old photos.

Father's mother's father - my great grandfather - second from right, in glasses.

Grandpa Brayshaw

Brayshaw, Sr., circa 1970, in Colorado

Grandpa Brayshaw: always photograph the first fish of the trip.

Brayshaw with freezer-burned big bass, circa 1988 (bass caught in about 1983)

Brayshaw, Ontario Canada pike, circa 1985.

Brayshaw, Sr.  One for the freezer, Ontario, Canada.

Hair: thick, lush, no more. Indiana, circa 1988

Brayshaw & hunting pal, Phragmites the Dog, rabbit stew, circa 1989.

Four fox squirrels, four shots, .22 caliber Ruger 77

Jonny: Successful fox hunt, two shots (one to make sure), 12 bore AYA.

Brayshaw is foxy too. Large hammer, two hits (to make sure.)

The Pitiful and Completely Uninspiring Story of Carl Henry

It’s understandable that Carl Henry would resent his older brother John.  Or, I should say, did resent him because of course, John has passed and has been forever immortalized in song and folklore.  It’s not that Carl didn’t love John.  He did, with all his heart, and for most of his childhood Carl wanted nothing more than to one day be a steel driver himself – just like John. But it’s hard for anybody to be a steel driving man, and it’s particularly hard if you’re small of stature and born with  slightly asymmetrical arms.  It throws off your timing, I guess.

But Carl was a good fly tier.  His flies weren’t fancy, but that didn’t matter because folks in Carl’s town didn’t want fancy flies.  They just wanted flies that would get the job done.  But more importantly, Carl’s flies were clean and he could tie them quickly.  Carl could crank out ten dozen flies and they would all be identical. If you’re a pro, that’s nothing to scoff at, and he made a passable living that way.  But still, nobody would let him forget that he was John Henry’s little brother.  It’s not that they were trying to shame him.  It was nothing like that.  It’s just that this is how folks treat those close to celebrity, when the celebrity isn’t available.

And so, the irony of what transpired in the fall of that fateful year was hardly lost on Carl Henry.  Word spread that there was, as they called it, a “whip finish tool”.  To Carl, this sounded as absurd as an “itch scratching tool”.  Could anything do this better than one’s own fingers? But it was impossible to ignore the talk.  Folks in town, but even outside of town (surrounding towns, too), were talking about the whip finish tool, and some said the tool would allow even a rank amateur to finish a fly faster than a man using just his hands.  Carl doubted this, but the truth is, he didn’t care.  Carl cared about little.  But it was inevitable that sooner or later, somebody was going to suggest a contest, and this is exactly what happened.

At first, Carl begged off.  He hemmed and hawed but the townsfolk were relentless. What else was there to do on a Saturday night? And so the night came and there was food and music and drink. Carl arrived on time, and saw that he’d be competing against Enos Pratt, the kid who tied flies for old man Clark’s hardware store. Enos was a good tier- Carl was the one who taught him, after all.  Frankly, Carl didn’t care if he won or lost, at least not at first. 

But he got the drink in him. And he heard the whispers.  And by the time the gun fired and the tiers started, he did care.  But he didn’t care if he won or lost.  What he cared about was his own legacy, and he knew that if he couldn’t win this contest, he had only one alternative. No – even this wouldn’t do.  Winning wouldn’t be enough, because even his big brother John won, but it wasn’t his win that immortalized him. So Carl tied like he’d never tied before.  Sweat flew from Carl’s forehead, and he was at least six flies ahead of Enos Pratt, but still, he tied faster and faster.  Observers later said that Carl’s fingers moved so fast, they were just a blur of thread, feathers and, eventually, blood. The blood, as it turns out, was because in his haste, Carl had tossed a few whip finishes around his index finger.  

But nobody, not even Carl, paid it any mind at the time. In fact, only one thing was on Carl’s mind and he muttered under his breath as he tied “Oh Lawd, please take me now.  Please take me now.”  It was, of course, Carl’s intent to tie himself to death. His only wish was that, at the very moment, his heart would explode and he would collapse, still six flies ahead.

In the end, however, Enos Pratt did catch up and when the postman, who had been selected to stop the clock because he was the only sober person among them, finally rang the bell, Enos Pratt had tied one more fly than had Carl Henry.  And Carl Henry, much to his chagrin, was alive and well.

But not quite.  Because in his efforts to tie himself to death, he had chosen Kevlar tying thread, the strongest thread known.  And, as I said earlier, he had inadvertently tied several whip finishes around his index finger.  By the time Carl and the doctor realized what had happened, it was too late.  The finger turned gangrenous and within a month’s time, Carl was four fingered.  In the end, Carl could not tie flies with his hands…and could never master the whip finish tool.  He was dead three years later, found destitute and drunk in his shack.

This story has no moral, but it’s been clear to me for years that if I didn’t tell it, nobody would.

Speyside Miniature in the Connecticut Highlands

When you drive north on Route 7, there's a point - probably just before the village of Kent - when you realize you're actually driving through a substantial floodplain. The hills either side take on the look of something approaching mountains and you haven't seen a strip mall in 10 miles. You're in the North-West CT "Highlands", and the ridge to your left is the Appalachian Trail as it clips Connecticut.  And yes, it feels a bit like you're in a small version of Speyside, and you'll just have to take my word for this.

When I posted this on Facebook, one of my friends from Scotland said "I thought you'd taken this in Scotland",
but I had not.

It helps with homesickness to live in a place that feels familiar. And the fishing is familiar, especially on the Housatonic River, which is head and shoulders my favorite river in the area. The picture speaks for itself, but it also has the feel of a wild Scottish river. It's big, natural, difficult to wade, and there aren't many folk about. Of course, were it in Scotland, it's interesting to think that the Housie might contain large, silver Salmonids, cost $300 per day to fish and be bookable months in advance, instead of containing the numerous stocked trout (rainbow and brown) that Zakur and I had ready access to, and caught in profusion, yesterday. And not forgetting the lower reaches, where this large trout stream is a larger tidal river that does contain wild anadromes; it's just that they wear pinstripes.

My right hand and a Brown Trout

The Housatonic is a solid 3 hour round trip from my home on the coast. Purely as a matter of record, that feels like a long way to go on the Sabbath. But the river had just been stocked, and I now conform to the blood lust chances of catching were good, and catch we did. At first, it was just me doing the catching, and this isn't terribly polite when you've gatecrashed a chap's Sunday quiet. But Zakur and I take it in turns at being good at fishing (and as I write this I realize this is another very good thing about the sport. "After you, no no, I insist, you first"). The last time Z and I fished this pool the boot was on t'other foot and I couldn't buy a strike. This time my "success" came of pure laziness, Steve having diligently rigged with nymphs under an indicator, me lacking patience for such apparatus and stumbling on the swung fly as the stockies' favorite. The difference between fish or none is often that simple.

Zakur's turn.

After cookie cutter rainbow followed cookie cutter brown, we decided - as the discerning types we are - to switch to the dry fly. Also, fish had started to rise quite regularly to all manner of mayflies; grey ones, yellow ones, in size something or other. The catching slowed as we worked the rises that were furthest from us, because (a) we pretend we are targeting the most challenging fish, but mostly (b) casting is good, and (c) the fish in the distance are always bigger. At one point we were both playing fish and commented during the struggle that these felt like "better" ones.

Quite embarrassing, then, that we doubled on fallfish. (Incidentally, I think they are very pretty, will take a dry fly, and at the very least present a nice change from trout after stocked trout.)

Quick: here's a shovel-tailed male brown trout to make us feel better.  He hammered a dry Adams and tugged well. It was nice to land him.

Speyside in Connecticut. We'll be back for our Thanksgiving Fruitcake, floods permitting.

Jonny