Three Generations

When I was a young boy there was an act so heinous, so foul, so unthinkable that it would invariably cause my father to prune a hefty switch from one of the back yard fruit trees. As an environmentally conscious parent, a flailing from Dad was always 100% organic. Apple wood was preferred for its smooth acceleration, but cherry came in a close second due to aesthetics. The goal with the latter was to achieve a pleasing color match between the deep red bark and the offender's behind.

What could twist a man never given to strong drink into this unholy Johnny Appleseed gone wrong? Why, the unsupervised fondling or use of Dad's prized possession: A fiberglass Fenwick fly rod (7 ½ feet for a 6-weight) equipped with a classic Pflueger Medalist reel.

These days Dad has lost a fair amount of top-end speed, and if I come out of the starting blocks just right I can usually grab the Fenwick and outdistance him somewhere in the 3rd kilometer.

Having gotten my hands on the 'glass this weekend, it occurred to me that I had 3 generations of fly rods in my tying room. Grandpa's old bamboo rig with some type of reel that appears to have been forged during the Bronze Age, Pop's Fenwick, and my plethora of mostly graphite affairs.

I thought it would be fun to capture this using a vintage look.

Grandpa was born in 1911. By all accounts flappers were his center of attention in the 1920s. I've never heard of that fly myself, but he used to mention that they were considerably effective attractor patterns. In the years since, many a loop has been thrown by this collection of sticks. Here's to many more.

Eye of the Tiger

"April is the cruelest month;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust."
-T.S. Eliot

Who knew that T.S. Eliot was an ice-off musky fly fisherman? Certainly not I, but how else can this quotation realistically be explained?

Thick plates of ice render stillwater useless to lint flickers, yet we know what lurks beneath in the darkness...

Wicked souls.

With the retreat of hard water, hope springs forth in a cruel form. Lines can now be cast through the crisp Spring air, but in cold water musky often adopt the personality traits of couch potatoes. Languishing in the aquatic equivalent of Barcaloungers, the demon torpedoes mimic the average man during the NFL playoffs: Consuming only that which is placed within effortless reach.

Slim chances aside, those who are consumed by the freshwater Jabberwocky go forth and give chase. Today, teeth gnashed.

MIDCURRENT²

I am appreciative of being featured for the second time on MidCurrent for my fly fishing work. The Photography section showcases images from all over the globe and is a must-see. Thanks to Tim Romano for his assistance with round 2.

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