There has to be some of you that have fishing stories that you can write up.
Please do it. You may not think that you are a writer. Well be like me I am a flyfisher who rambles on the pages some. If I can do it, you can also.
I would like to read some “warmwater” that is not me.
Rick
you can read most of mine on my site.
Signature line links there.
I’d C&P, but its a Monday, and almost done with coffee break! LOL. :lol:
My first ever guide trip for smallmouth bass started in Baker Oregon. We stayed at guide Phil Simonski’s Bed & Breakfast. Phil had been a bass tourney fisherman and his boat was a Champion with a 150 Merc that he had won in a tourney. This smallmouth bass trip took us about 150 miles north to Hell’s Canyon Reservoir, on the Snake River. I felt safe and in good hands with Phil and it was obvious he had a lot of experience fishing.
Phil drove me up to the Res. and no one was around, just a lot of water. I asked Phil, “Where are the fish?” and he said “Ten miles up the Reservoir”. A thought ran through my mind that TEN MILES is a long way from the fish! The next ten minutes was a BLUR, literally!, since he drove his boat SIXTY MPH and all I remember is passing cars and looking at very blurry water as we flew across it!
We got to our fishing destination and we fished with Phil’s famous hair jigs that had been soaked in secret juice. I think this formula was a bit of overkill, but I played along. Phil and I proceeded to catch a lot of smallmouth bass. It was fun! and I even did some vertical jigging that caught fish, saw some giant carp (30-40 lbs) in the clear water and Phil tried fishing for Chukar (bird) by casting a bass plug and trying to hit it! The funny bird didn’t seem to be afraid of Phil’s efforts.
So that was my first smallmouth bass trip and it was a winner!
Doug
This has been a bad year for warmwater fishing. The lakes are flooded and the boat ramps are underwater and closed.
I was starting to go into withdrawal, so I went to Misssouri last week and spend a morning fishing for trout. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to trout fishing, since we had to stop fishing while the fish were still biting due to frozen feet. I never have “cold feet” when I’m bass fishing. But then again, I’ve never seen a dozen bass follow my every foot step either. That was really cool to see a bunch of trout swimming at your feet. 
Rex
Hi Rick,
I would be willing to give it a try.
I have one story (or two) I could write, as I did well some earlier this summer, and stumbled onto one of my own patterns that has really become a favorite of mine.
What do I need to do to once I have written the story?
Two concerns are that there are a lot of guys on this site that are better warm water fly fishermen than I am, and also I have not gotten to do much fly fishing this summer due to business trips, and trips to work on one our kids houses (carpentry and wiring). Once home it has been a battle to catch up.
At any rate I will gladly write up the story.
Regards,
Gandolf
Hey guys,
Rick is absolutely right. How about what was your best fishing trip this summer? (Sort of like the old 'what I did on summer vacation" in school.) You could write about your worst trip too… Think of it as a letter you are writing to a best friend.
Stories should be emailed with the story in the message part of the email, or as an attachment in Word, Word Perfect or whatever writing program you have, I think I can open almost anything.
We’ve love to have your stories - send them in S
I’ve got a few things I’ve been kicking around. I’ll give it a try.
I’m keeping a journal of our adventures and misadventures for my son as we learn to fly fish together. He is 12, I’m 46. When the time is right, I’m going to print it up with some of our photographs and give it to him. Some of the stories are funny (like the one I’m posting below), and some are a little more introspective about the father/son relationship. If you all like these, I can post some more when I get a little time.
Jeff
A very expensive cigar
Murphy?s Law: Anything that can go wrong will.
Murphy was an optimist.
After waiting through a brutal and long winter, the first signs of spring came upon the Midwest, as it always does, around the middle of March. It seems like springtime comes late, but as we all know, in God?s perfect plan, it comes right when it is supposed to. Not a day too early or a day too late. For this fisherman, it always seems like it?s a day (or month) too late.
If you?ve ever lived through a Midwestern winter, you can appreciate how welcome the first warm days of spring are. The grass is starting to change from winter brown to springtime green. The maple trees have red buds on the end of each branch that will, in a few weeks, sprout green leaves. The crocuses, daffodils, and tulips are starting to poke their green leaves through the ground and what, just two days ago, seemed gray and bland is today bright and sunny. Yes, spring is in the air.
It?s time to turn our attention to fishing. Our new fly fishing gear, neatly tucked away in the basement, was eagerly awaiting today! I turned on the weather forecast this morning and saw what made my heart skip a beat: Sunny, high mid 80?s with 20% chance of rain. Daniel, this is the day! Right after church (it was a Sunday by the way) we?re going fishing. Before you start moaning, I?m as devout about going to church on Sunday as the next guy, but this is the holy day of fishing we?re talking about. It?s the first warm day of spring so I?m sure our creator understands. Unfortunately, this early in the spring, the water is still ice cold and it takes a few hours of sunlight to get the surface temperature up a few degrees and to get the fish moving, so we can pass off the time at church listening to the minister talk about something that is nowhere near as enlightening as the first fishing outing of the year.
Daniel and I decided to stop by a local public fishing pond so that we could have plenty of non-tree lined shoreline to cast. This being our first fly fishing outing, we thought somewhere with a bunch of trees would not be a good thing. Murphy?s Law states ?if anything can go wrong, it will.? Fishermen will gladly tell you Murphy was an optimist. It seemed that every other person in the country had the same idea. People were standing shoulder to shoulder around the bank of the lake. I have no idea how anyone could spot if their bobber went. Furthermore, I have no idea how a fish could possibly swim in that lake without snagging himself on a hook dangling below a red and white bobber the size of a softball. If we were not in hot pursuit of our first fish of the season, we would have stayed and enjoyed the show. Between crossed and tangled lines, kids squealing as they picked up a worm, fathers telling the little ones to be quiet, and the occasional mayhem of a 6 year old holding up their first bluegill, this promised to be quite the show. However, Daniel and I were on a mission. Fish were waiting to be caught and we had no time for such foolishness as watching the spectacle about to unfold at this lake.
We decided to drive about 30 minutes down the road to a state park with a pond that does not get as much fishing pressure. When we pulled into the parking lot, it looked like the 50% of the world?s population that was not at the first lake had somehow found their way to the second lake. While we were getting our fly rods out of their cases and getting the rest of our stuff ready, Daniel spotted a yellow sign attached to a tree at the end of the parking lot. The sign talked about the delayed harvest (DH) section of the stream that runs through the park. It seems that during the winter months, the state stocks trout in the stream and they are fished on a catch and release basis until the first of April.
Considering that we had fly rods in hand and there were, at one time, trout in the stream, we decided to walk over the hill and try our luck. The good news was we were the only 2 souls fishing the stream. We had the place to ourselves without another person in sight. We could hear voices from the picnic area, but could not see the people or smell their burning hot dogs. It was just like fishing is supposed to be, quiet, peaceful, introspective and relaxing. Yes, it was the High Holy Day that fishermen look forward to as eagerly as a child awaits Christmas morning. The first warm day of spring, to a fisherman, is Christmas, Birthday, last day of school, and the Super Bowl all wrapped up in one sunny afternoon.
Fly rods in hand, we walked up stream about 100 yards and found a sandbar where we could cast without too much risk of tangling the back casts in the trees. Upon surveying the stream, I pointed to a slight undercut on the opposite bank right at the edge of the pool?s entry riffle. It was just the kind of place a predator would hang out and wait for food to be delivered to his front door.
Daniel took his rod, unhooked the black wooly bugger from the hook eye, pulled out about 10 feet of fly line, and about 3 false casts later plopped the fly right in front of the overhang. It was actually a pretty cast, just a few feet too far down stream. He brought up the end of his rod, made a back cast and dropped another pretty cast, this time in the current and the bugger floated just below the surface right past the overhang. A silver flash was seen below the water?s surface; however, no fish on the other end of his line.
It was time for another cast. While he was doing a couple false casts and making a few casts that made me feel better (read a few ugly casts vs. the beautiful loops he threw with his first two casts. It was somewhat comforting to know that my son, who is good at just about any sport he?s attempted, may not be a prodigy at fly fishing. Not that I want it to be hard for him, I don?t, but getting the timing right is hard for me and it would be nice to be better at him than something (I can?t beat him at video games, I can?t beat him at basket ball, I can?t beat him at soccer, and I only occasionally beat him at chess). Fishing is my last hope.
On his 3rd cast, I heard those magic words all fathers hope for when they take their sons fishing. No, not those words, the other ones ?Dad, I hooked a tree.? While he was tugging on the line, it was my chance to slip a fly into that current and see what I could catch.
Taking full advantage of the opportunity, I seized upon the moment and tossed my black and green wooly bugger into the riffle. It was not a pretty cast, but it landed just a few feet up stream from where I saw a fish strike Daniel?s fly a few minutes earlier. About 3 seconds into the drift, bam, I got a strike! It was a small fish and I nearly jerked it out of the water when I raised the rod end to set the hook. When it got up close to the sand bar, I noticed some reddish pink on its side and for a few moments thought I had hooked into a trout! No such luck. It was a creek chub, a really pretty fish but not a trout. Hey, that was the first fish on our fly fishing journey, who cares what it was? I snapped a photo to document the event and then turned my attention to my son who was at the end stages of realizing the only way to continue fishing was to break off the fly and have dad tie on a new one. I caught a chub and Daniel caught his first tree trout.
While I was lighting the victory cigar (hey, I did catch a fish after all), I heard the tell tale snap of the line breaking, shortly followed by ?Dad, will you tie on a new fly for me?? Remember earlier when I pointed out that Murphy was an optimist? You are about to find out what I meant.
Daniel brought his rod over to me so that I could tie on a new fly. I sat the freshly lit cigar down so that it was propped up on a twig and set about selecting another wooly bugger to tie onto his line. In about 30 seconds, I had a perfectly tied improved clinch knot, the tag end clipped off short and he was ready to go about the task of catching a fish of his own. Then was when Mr. Murphy reared his ugly head. Daniel said ?Dad, you burned my fly line with your cigar.? Sure enough about 15? from the end, right about where the taper starts the line was burned. Not scorched or just a little melted, we?re talking burned in half. My first thought was I can fix this, followed quickly by my second thought ?This is going to be expensive?. I tied the best loop in the end of his fly line I could and reattached his leader and he went about fishing and even managed to catch a creek chub. It was photographed as evidence to show the wife when we got home. We did conveniently forget to photograph the cigar or the burned fly line.
To paraphrase a popular TV commercial: ?The cigar $5.00?, ?the line $45.00?, the lesson ?Priceless?.
If my 1st grade math is correct, that makes it a $50.00 cigar. Yes, it was an expensive smoke, but the memory of our first fly fishing outing was indeed priceless.
jeffnles1
great satory.
If you email them to publisher@flyangleronline.com they can be put up in the weekly articles section.
They would be great on there.
Rick
Stories up!
[Here’s mine[/url:92f39]
_________________
RRhyne56
http://www.robinscustomleadersandflies.com](http://robinsrumination.blogspot.com/2007/07/crack-o-dawn.html:92f39)
http://robinsrumination.blogspot.com
My longtime friend Bob Belcher, affectionately known as ‘Burp’ to his close friends, operates a large ranch. He raises chickens for large corporations like Pilgrims Pride, eggs and several other animal types. Chances are, if you’ve bought a chicken or eggs, or beef or farm-raised catfish in any grocery store in TN., AL., or Ga., you’ve eaten some of his products.
One day I had come over to Burps to help him pressure wash an empty chicken house, since he had just had a shipment go out. They have to be pressure-washed before you can raise any more in that house, per government regulations. After we finished, Burp suggested we take the rest of the day off and throw some flies in one of his dozens of large ponds/small lakes. It was a balmy 95 degree day with little or no breeze, so I quickly agreed.
It was about 11:00 AM when we got our gear and took his pick-up to the closest pond. He'd had it stocked with a strain of bluegills called 'Tiger Gills". They are a cross between shellcrakers and bluegills. They get especially large and are extremely aggressive, even for bluegills.
We were casting some Souhegan Hoppers that I had tied up a few days earlier, and we we doing very well, averaging a fish every other cast. The Tigers were very coopertive and spoiling for a fight, and we were only too happy to give it to them. Somewhere along the line, I managed to hook into one of Burps prize Florida-Strain Bass that he also had stocked in there, and it broke off my leader in short order.
As I was re-rigging, I noticed a strange car comming through the gate, and called Burps attention to it. We watched as a black Lexus with U.S. Government plates drove through the gate. It was being driven by a bald-headed man with gold-rimmed glasses. The driver did not stop and close the gate. [i](For those of you who do not know, in this part of the country, that's about as rude as spitting on someone's floor.)[/i]
He pulled up to us in a cloud of red dust, stopped and got out of the car. He was rather small. mousey looking, and had on a greyish suit (something you don’t see much of here in N. Ga.). In a high pitched, authoritative, Northern-accented voice he asked " Which one of you is Mr. Robert M. Belcher"? As soon as we could quite coughing from the dust, Burp said, “I am. What can I do for you?” The stranger puffed himself up to his full stature of 5’ 3", 140 Lbs. and said with a very rude, haughty voice, “I am Inspector Tom Biddle from the U.S. Department of Agriculture. I am here to inspect your facillity. You are to remain where you are, and not leave the property until I’m finished.”
Well...since we were perfectly happy where we were, we didn't see a problem, so Burp replied "Sure thing Mr. Help yourself, but don't go in that field over there where that big steel gate is. I don't let anyone in there."
Inspector Biddle reached in his pocket and pulled out a leather holder with a cheap looking badge on it and some sort of ID card with his picture on it. "Mr. Belcher, I am empowered by the U.S. Government to go anywhere I wish during an Agricultural Inspection, up to and including your residence and personal vehicles. I can have a dozen U.S. Marshalls here in less than 10 minutes if you give me any trouble. Do I need to call them? " He made a point of pulling out his cell phone while he was talking. Burp said "No, that won't be necessary. Do what you gottta do," as he rolled his eyes at me.
We returned to fishing, and were again getting fast action. About 15 minutes later, we heard a high-pitched scream comming from the next field. As we turned, we were treated to the site of Mr. Biddle attempting to break the world-speed record for the 100 yard dash, being pursued by a very irritated, 1000+ lb. bull buffalo. The buffalo was gaining, and the Inspector still had about 30 yards to go to reach the fence.
As soon as I could stop laughing, I turned to Burp and said "We really should help him." Burp replied , between guffaws, "Well...I guess we should at that." Burp turned towards the field, cupped his hands around his mouth, and yelled " Hey, Biddle!.... Show him your badge!..... Show him your badge!......."
By some miracle, Mr. Biddle cleared the fence in one jump, with the bull a mere second or two behind. After we got him calmed down, and his heart slowed to something resembling normal, Burp asked him if he wanted to see anything else.
Mr. Biddle declined, cut the inspection short, gave Burp a passing grade and, after getting directions to the nearest bar, got in his car and left. We never saw him again…
I’m sure that Bluto, the bull in question, went back to the herd and told about the one that got away…
As for us, we treated ourselves and our wives to a huge bluegill fish-fry that evening, complete with hush puppies, fried potatoes and home-made coleslaw. Then we sat around until about 10:00PM picking banjos, guitars, the fiddle, and singing old bluegrass and gospel songs..
Life is good........
This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead…is a darn shame. The names were changed to protect the incompetent.
:lol: :lol:
I love that story!
RRhyne56
http://www.robinscustomleadersandflies.com
http://robinsrumination.blogspot.com
there great stories did u on the burnt line change it ?
Yes,
I got a new Wf 5Wt for him. I kept the partial line (what was left after the cigar had its way) and have it in my pack for a spare or emergency. I have a braided loop attached to it and could string it up should I ever need to.
After reading a lot on these forums, the next time, I"m getting double taper. Had my son been using double taper, I could have stripped the line off, flipped it around, tied it back to the backing, placed a new loop or nail knotted his leader on and within 15 minutes would have been back in business for the rest of the summer.
Live and learn.
Jeff