text:
the strength of intangibles...
November 19, 2013
Slipping in the back... quietly.
Of course your own life is your truest story and it blinds you unless it is heavily edited.
Jim Harrison, p.2, Off to the Side
I haven't really reconciled myself to the idea of being a writer, at least in the sense of assuming there would be at least a modicum of consistent output. Having said that, and though there is no real evidence to support a viable move in that direction as of yet, I nevertheless periodically run the idea up my personal flag pole, sit down and attempt to make sense out of the mosh of itinerant musings bouncing around in my head.
Maybe that's what derails me. Trying to connect all the dots.
It's been at least seven months since my last post, for those of you who are keeping score. That might seem like a long time, I guess, when thought of in the conventional, day-to-day, put a line through them on the calendar-style of timekeeping. For me, it's been a blur. Maybe that's what happens as we age, although I'm supposing that as if I had some experience with getting old; I'd be assuming then that I understand just exactly how my aging process works. But, in looking at where I am now in reference to total years spent, the gradual process of learning how to dial in on a certain facet of my life to the extent that all else becomes quite frivolous or encumbering might have something to do with the accelerated passing blur of larger and larger chunks of time, at the same time understanding that it is more than favorably offset by increasingly frequent periods of nothing less than total liberation. A more than equitable tradeoff, in my mind. Not that I've shirked my duties or obligations to others along my way, quite to the contrary. I've been johnny-on-the-spot wherever, whenever I've been needed, and I keep my yard clean and teeth brushed, but more and more there is less and less room in my shrinking cylinder for that which does not involve all things revolving around casting a fly onto moving water. I suppose I could've said just that and let it be, but since I believe there's more here than meets the eye, I've returned to my blog in what I hope will be more than another wordy exercise in a frustrating effort to sort out it all out. Maybe more for me than anyone else, I'm trying to make a semblance of sense out of my journey. Especially the last seven months. The period of enlightenment is really a time for discovery. Upon examination of my discoveries, I have now arrived at the next dissemination waypoint.
I think the last post had me out at Rocky Ford, remarking on the fact that I was just happy to be there blah blah. I was, and will be again, I'm sure. Big fish are big fish, they're fun to watch, to stalk, and fabulous to feel on the end of a good rod no matter what else you may conjure up to throw at me.
After the interminably long doldrum of spring it eventually came to be summer and the river. I'm not going to give a blow-by-blow of the fishing, save for the fact that it was the Spokane at it's beguiling best. Sometimes good, sometimes not-so-good, almost always a mystery. Flows were good enough by mid-June to begin the search in earnest and I was there regularly.
By mid-July I'd begun my two/days, totally submerged in the tunnel of my fishing routine. On the river before dawn. Fish until the sun shut them down (depended where I was), head home to clean lines, tie/conceptualize flies etc., and oh yeah maybe mow the lawn and eat something and by then it was time to figure out where to be fishing as darkness enveloped me. Fish until I couldn't lift my arm and then get home and start the process all over again with maybe a meal and some sleep in between. Exceptional days. Not so much in regard to numbers of fish brought to hand, but in the way I chose to spend them. It was during this period when that little voice in my head finally went silent.
I began to see time passing, and the way it did, from a different perspective. In allowing myself the freedom to pursue total immersion, it became easier to flow through all the congestion that attaches itself to real life. Time lost became less and less problematic; it will happen, often, and letting it get to me wasn't going to get it back. The best way to deal with it was to 'keep my eye on the ball'. Easy to say, harder to facilitate, until presented with an extended period of perfect conditions that seemed to reward me as long as I kept 'my eye on the ball'. And when I did, I granted myself the ability to see what, in all likelihood, I'd been seeking for a very long time without knowing what it was I was chasing.
The weather was nearly perfect, cooperating to the extent that I got a little superstitious and made a bit of a conscious effort not to take notice, without much success.
Several good flies evolved into being over the summer, and most of them have found a permanent spot in my box and therefore my future river strategy. A couple of them have become 'go-tos', fish catchers no matter where I use them. I should've taken pictures of each of them as they transformed from one to the next, but I say that every fall. When it's all said and done there will have been a lot of pictures.
I didn't fish with dries very often last summer, at least on the Spokane. On each occasion it was to fish rising to blue-winged olives. I resisted the temptation only so long before caving in, lengthening my leader and playing the game, but I was thrilled to finally hook several fish on a cripple concept I've been toying with for a few years. When it comes to BWOs on the Spokane, they will come off in prolific numbers for days at a time, but as the hatch progresses each day the window of opportunity shrinks until finally you must have the perfect fly on the water at the most opportune moment in the most advantageous drift or it'll all amount to little more than a multi-layered casting exercise. Time was when I would spend untold hours plying the waters with every imaginable artificial trying to figure out what would work. My quest fizzled when it dawned on me that the fish get extremely dialed in to what they want because the surface film is absolutely covered with them. Trying to discern which one is yours is difficult enough without factoring in how many real ones are in very close proximity to your fly.
But, when caddis were out and fish were willing to come to the surface, I swung soft hackles through and did quite well. The caddis more often than not coincided with the olive hatch and the fish were inexplicably not eager to show themselves for anything that was offered, natural or imitative. There were many days where the surface was absolutely covered with hatching BWOs and caddis and yet nowhere could I see even a single nose breaking the surface.
Along came August. The fishing was still good, as it always is, but the catching part slowed considerably. My rod of choice at this time had become my 5120. It allowed me to reach out some distance further than my 5100. In my way of thinking, probably flawed but making perfect sense to me at the time, getting the soft hackle to water that was beyond the limit of most casters would put the fly in front of fish that hadn't been hammered with this year's crop of flies.
And, for the most part the strategy worked quite well. But the flows kept receding, and soon enough it was back to favoring all the off stretches and little slots that most everyone else would pass by. Since it was no big deal if I came up empty through these areas, it was always a thrill to hook up, especially when the fish was a sizable beast that had probably taken up station there to keep a low profile. Usually it was one and done, and if there wasn't a take on the first or second swing, well, it was time to move on.
As August reached its midpoint, my son and I hit the road for Oregon and the Metolius River. I'd read about it for years, getting caught up in the mystique, and so when Aaron asked where we should go on our less than annual fishing trip this year, I hesitated not a second and spit out, "the Metolius River"...
And so off we went, and got our collective asses kicked.
For three days we fished our brains out, covering every inch of water that ran through the series of campgrounds upstream from Camp Sherman. Three or four miles of beautiful, fishy-looking, rather fast-moving water. Upon our arrival we were chagrinned to find that the lower section was still closed due to the fire situation which put an immediate crimp in our plans. Still, we hit the water each day with renewed determination, only to return to our Smiling River camp several hours later, tails between our legs. I felt bad for Aaron. I'd really built that place up. Despite the lack of catching, he really impressed me with his patient approach to the increasingly depressive atmosphere surrounding our stay. In fact, he basically out fished me while donning the mantle of the optimist. I spent a lot of time morosely going through the motions, but enjoyed watching my son fish. I've said it before and I'll say it again; for as much as he gets on the water, it's amazing what he's managed to figure out.
Having a new rod in his hands also helped. A few weeks prior to our trip I was pleasantly surprised to open an e-mail from him with pictures of his brand new Sage 486-4 XP and a new Ross reel lined with a Scientific Anglers GPX, all of which made his time on the water much more pleasing, and not only for him! It was easy to see that he was finally really in touch with his rod and line and enjoying the feeling that a good cast can bring.
Time after time I watched him from forty feet or so fearlessly drop his fly into thin bare spots between the bushes overhanging the bank and then cannily manage his drifts, secretly pulling for a strike. The guy can wade, too. The Metolius, a spring creek, is swift and cold, flowing over lava beds that are cracked, angled, and covered with a slippery combination of algae, grasses and moss. I got my myself into trouble several times unwittingly following along thinking I'd handle whatever he'd just waded through with as much ease as he did. It's frustrating to be reminded of my slowly diminishing abilities, but I took umbrage in the idea that this really wasn't about or for me. It struck me that I was watching him through the eyes of a teacher who has been surpassed by his student. There's a lot of pride involved in that realization. On our last full day he hooked up, drifting a heavy, soft hackled fly through a deep undercut that I'd tied for the Spokane. Alas, I was upstream plumbing the depths of a rare piece of slower water and missed his triumph. Chagrin, again.
On our way to the Metolius, we drove past first the Crooked River and then skirted close to the Deschutes. After our first two days had ended with zeroes, I'd suggested we take a little road trip. My idea was dismissed; surely we'd figure it out and get back on track.
Three weeks later on a Thursday, I packed up the Suburban, calibrated the Garmin and set out for the Deschutes on my own. I stepped through the doors of the Deschutes Angler in Maupin about 5 hours later. Good folks. No pretentiousness, just friendly talk and reliable information. By noon I'd set up at a great campsite about 7 miles upstream from town.
I fell in love with Maupin at first sight. If I ever decide that I need to get out of here, well, look for me there. And it's full of characters, folks who eat, sleep and breathe fishing, both for trout and steelhead. I'm sure that during the fishing season the town's population doubles. It'd be nice to see what's left when the snow flies, although something tells me that a lot of those characters are still there, sitting in the Oasis munching on outrageous cheeseburgers and telling lies.
Thursday night had been magical. After my initial foray earlier that afternoon, I'd returned to camp to heat up my dinner and was treated to the sight of several October Caddis fluttering along the bank through the bushes. As the shadows grew, so did the numbers of those big orange Caddis, using any and every bush that protruded out over the water as an anchor point. Thousands of them. Soon splashing fish were appearing all over the river, especially on my side! Big fish, and they were definitely after any thing big that got close to or was unlucky enough to be stuck in the surface film. I sat, mesmerized, watching many fish come clear out of the water as they chased their prey. Amazing! And it was all happening right in front of me! I grabbed for my waders, fumbling about almost hysterically trying to get rigged and on the water before the whole thing ended, which it didn't. The nearly full moon rising over the hills downstream allowed me to stay on the water until well after ten and I brought several nice rainbows and a couple of big browns to hand. What a dream sequence it was. Once I understood that my #10 October Caddis needed to be twitched occasionally as it drifted I was at once rewarded with aggressive takes and a couple of break-offs. To look downstream into the moonlight on the river and see hundreds of yards of splashing fish is a sight I will take with me forever.
I was up early Friday morning, having finally fallen into a few hours of sleep after the adrenalin rush of the previous night's glory, formulating a plan for the day at the picnic table, sipping coffee in the pre-dawn next to my tent right smack dab on the river. There was a space between the bushes on the bank of the river. I was absently staring into the water there when I caught sight of a large fish slowly pushing upstream in the trough running just off the bank. It had to be a steelhead. Plan formulated. I grabbed my 5120, a box of flies, donned my waders and gear, and headed downstream to a section of the river where yesterday I watched a couple of fishermen swinging flies with long rods.
By the time I'd made a fly choice and waded to a good starting point, it was almost sun-up. There should be a line underneath this section saying,"this is Steve's first attempt at steelhead while on his own", because that's what was running through my head as I stripped line for my first exploratory cast. The main flow here was pretty swift. The seam was well defined and about thirty feet out, so as the fly swung downstream to about eleven o'clock it would be pulled into much slower water. As the line edged toward the bank at the end of the swing I'd let it slowly go taut and begin a smooth, short strip retrieve. I noticed a pick-up truck emerge from the shadows a few hundred yards downstream, slowly moving up the horrid little gravel road that parallels the river, stopping every now and then to survey the river. On my third cast, I reached out a little more, mended a modest amount of line out behind the fly and settled in to watch my line as it bellied and began pulling the fly. I remember hearing the pickup slow and pull onto the soft gravel of a small turnout just above me. I heard a door shut, heard footsteps on the gravel and then, as the fly transitioned from the swift current through the seam there was a sudden staggering jolt on my rod immediately followed by the sight of a large fish hurling itself into the air in a spastic somersault, with my fly in the corner of its mouth. It was all I could do maintain a good hold on the rod while the fish turned, hastened for the swift water and then downstream, catapulting itself into the air time and time again punctuated by short but scary periods of savage head shakes. My Cheeky shed line at a ridiculous rate and I was reduced to little more than standing thigh deep simply trying to hold on as I watched the backing knot rip up through the guides and disappear into the river. A 5120 is a stout rod, for trout. A steelhead is something else, though, and as the fish got further and further downstream, I began to seriously doubt I'd see it again. So much energy! My thoughts bounced back and forth from sheer joy to dismay to panic. It felt like the fish was getting stronger as the battle went on, and I wondered aloud to no one but me what should I do next, knowing full well that the only thing I could do now was to chase him, and that meant a helter skelter run/stumble downstream over uneven lava rock and slippery shale. All I can say is that adrenalin is an amazing substance!
I'd moved down fifty, maybe sixty yards, alternately stopping or slowing to either test the fish's resolve (or my own) or to respool whatever line I might have regained. It was here that he turned, if only momentarily, but when he did he gradually began heading upstream in my direction. I got on the reel and quickly found that suddenly I couldn't keep up with his approach unless I either backed up or started stripping or both. And it seemed to me then that if I tried to horse him at all, he simply turned and took line back again, so it became a game of a few feet gained then some of that lost if I asserted myself too much. His streaky dashes had shortened considerably, but he still had enough left to demand my respect and attentiveness, especially when he went into those spasm-like head shakes.
It was about this time that I realized I had some company. A wader-clad gentleman stood on the bank, a huge pair of binoculars around his neck.
"That was a classic!", he exclaimed, "I saw him turn! What a take!"
It took what seemed like an eternity to get him out of the current into slower water where I could more effectively manage him. The fly was lodged securely in his left upper jaw which meant as he faced upstream he could resist being pulled toward me by simply maintaining his position in the current. Still, he persisted in sudden short-lived dashes for deeper water, and, as I slowly gained the upper hand, rolled incessantly when his energy flagged.
Finally, triumphantly, as I brought him past me for the fifth or sixth time I was able to firmly grasp his tail. He lay, exhausted on his side, my fly embedded in his jaw. It struck me that I was out of breath, and also that I'd had a witness!
For a wild Deschutes steelhead, he was of reasonable size, measuring about 27 inches. Still very fresh and bright. I worked the fly easily from his jaw and turned him upstream. My hands and legs were shaking. It wasn't long before I felt him regaining strength and after a couple of attempts to escape, I let go of his tail. He hovered there for a second or two, allowing me one last close look, and then, with a quick thrash of his tail, he was gone. I stood, turned toward shore, and took the extended hand of the gentleman who had been my witness.
"Well done", he said, as we shook hands. "I was coming up the road scouting and saw you were at the top of the run I fished through yesterday, so I pulled off to watch. What a show!"
And so we chatted for awhile. Straight away he wanted to see the fly, was surprised by its size, but impressed that I'd gotten, in his words,'the colors right'. Also, according to him, I was fishing with a fly that was about half as big as the articulated stuff he was swinging with his old 9140. When I extended my rod to him, he shook his head in disbelief.
"Now I see why the small fly. You obviously know what you're doing. Haven't seen you here before, do you fish the Deschutes a lot?" I told him no, this was my first time here, and this was the second steelhead I'd ever hooked and landed in my life. He grinned, shook his head, and told me I was breaking a very old rule. "Nobody hooks up here the first time. That's not supposed to happen. Not here."
After a few more minutes of back and forth, he looked at his watch, we shook hands again and he clambered back up the hill to his truck. After I heard his truck start and move off upstream, I cupped the fly in my hand and sat down for awhile. It seemed the right thing to do, because I'd just experienced a quintessential moment in my life, and I wanted to savor it for awhile.
The next day and a half were spent in search of a repeat of that morning's success. I didn't even get a bump. I made a lot of good casts onto water that looked every bit as sweet as the place where I'd hooked up. I tried every last one of the steelhead flies in my box. Nothing. It didn't matter. I'd broken through. And, I'd been allowed entrance into a world that until now I hadn't experienced. It is both humbling and addictive. One strike, one fish, and my journey is forever altered. I could never know that it would be so until it happened. And yet, maybe it was really just a matter of time. Maybe I was destined to finally understand what it is to feel the unmitigated strength of such a noble fish only after I'd somehow measured up against whatever standard the gods determine, I don't know. What I do know is that the years I spent swinging flies in search of trout had pointed the way to this day, to that fish, to that run, and to that place so far from my home water. And the best part of it all? I did it all myself.
I like to think that the cumulative effect of my years has allowed me to begin to realize what makes me tick. I think we all ascribe to that theory, although maybe some of us grow more adept at deciphering the codes along the way. And we're all blessed (or cursed) with any number of quirks, deficiencies and eccentricities (DNA gifts or independently acquired) that are going to either make or break you as your years unfold. Maybe not a big deal through a good chunk of your life, but at some point, the feeling that 'time's a wastin' begins to elbow it's way into conscious thought. If and when you finally break the code and understand, it's either "we blew it Billy" or "now is the time".
Fishing with flies has long been a much larger part of my life than I still yet realize. I'm getting closer to understanding all the ramifications of my involvement. I suppose there is no finite way to estimate the real impact it's had on my life beyond the fact that I still have a liver. But I'm getting further and further down the road; far enough now to know there's an end to all this and it's closer all the while I'm tying this, casting there or staring into my Garmin in search of another blue squiggle, and I begin to understand that what I've been given in return for my obsession will probably never be truly appreciated until I can't do it anymore. Only then will I fully understand. I think that's how it should be, how it should end. And, having said that, I can also finally clearly see that the best is surely yet to come.
All I need to do is to find the way. The journey doesn't really ever end!
Posted by Steve Moss at 11/19/2013 2 comments:
April 19, 2013
Tangible ups... and zen.
A rare experience of a moment at daybreak, when something in nature seems to reveal all consciousness...
Charles Ives
In the time it took me to lock up the truck, descend the small hill, cross the bridge and head upstream, the sky had lightened considerably. The stars had been painted over in the pastels of approaching dawn while mists still rose from the slowly moving water upstream.
Another perfect morning. Can any morning that finds me poised in or near trout water with rod in hand not be?
As the years roll back on behind, when I take the time to stop and think about it, I am increasingly aware of the creeping notion that indeed, just as the saying goes, 'the fishing's always good' to the point that I find the act of fishing beginning to supercede the need for catching. Not that I don't live for 'the take' or the bent rod or the bow wakes, but more and more often I 'catch' myself just kind of enjoying the moment. Like right now, leisurely strolling head up, taking in the brightening sky and the feel of this new day. There are rings appearing here and there, slowly expanding away from their origins, and I still come to point, but it's a divided focus. There will be plenty of time to address those rings, and the fish for the next few hours, but right now I feel more inclined to kind of just space it out and be part of the quietude. And it feels pretty good to do just that.
I've found that there's a tangible upside to this emerging attitude, too. A relaxed state of mind; one that's more content to take it as it comes, to not press, makes me a better fisherman. More to the point, and this is easy to quantify, is that in being kind of 'just happy to be here', I don't press. I don't force it. I tend to let it flow. And I know when I'm stepping outside of myself in that regard because if I've learned anything about fishing with flies, it's this; the fish know when you're in that zone. They really know. It must be something, some vibration, some kind of empathetical resonance maybe? I don't know what to call it, but its existence has been proven to me time and time again. I can't begin to count the number of occasions over the years whereby I turned to glance upstream, lost my self in a quick study of the antics of a shorebird or some furry resident, and turned back to my fly or indicator to discover the immediate significance of its absence. Not so hard to explain if it occurs only infrequently, baffling when it does with regularity. When it occurs frequently enough to add looking away to my repertoire, then I've got to wonder. And, being a good fisherman, that is, one with an almost innate ability to reason things like that out and come to some sort of what seems to me to be a viable solution, well, the best I can do is to give the fish credit. They must know when I look away. They know when my energy is temporarily diffused, when my power of concentration has been derailed. That has to be it, doesn't it? The secret for real success then must lie in either my or the fishes' ability to connect with what is undoubtedly one of the more ethereal dimensions of fishing. Sounds pretty zen-ish. Or nuts. Take your pick.
So here we are, a little more than halfway through April. The Spokane had begun its annual rage, approaching 20,000 cfs. But then, after those few days of warming temperatures and what turned out to be blossoming false hope, that recent phenomenon of colder than normal temps set back in and the river subsided. In fact, because of the snow at higher altitude, snowpacks have increased in the past week. Today's low was 26 degrees. Not very conducive to a gradual meltdown and runoff if the script repeats itself. So, today the river runs a bit under 13,000 which means it's about a thousand cfs under what would 'normally' be average run-off for this time of year.
Upside? Hm... I'm still working on that. Downside(s)? Plenty of 'em. Worst case scenarios whirl in my head. Another year of washed out hatches comes readily to mind; another year of being unable to effectively wade until mid-July... but, I'll take the higher ground here, and say that it's still 'early', that there's still time for Ma Nature to right the ship and get back to whatever normalcy is left in her scheme. I say that through clenched teeth, a little voice in the back of my head asking, "just what, my fine fellow, is this 'normal' that you hope for?"
There's just no way to know what the weather is going to do; if the temperatures will stay low, moderate, or if they'll suddenly spike and set the torrents of melt loose all at once. That's been the scenario for the past three years, and each time it does it reeks absolute havoc with the hatches, notably the early season caddis and BWOs. I could drive myself crazy with this useless supposition so I'll plant a foot and change direction.
Tomorrow being Thursday, I'll be making the weekly drive back out to 'The Ford'. Rocky Ford, home to the often over-sized but incredibly well fed, alternately gullible mostly finicky but nearly always entertaining rainbow trout. I call the big ones 'roundtail' trout, so named because of the damage sustained by living for a portion of their year in cement causeways until they've contributed to the propagation process at the hatchery which lies at the top of this spring creek. It's fishbowl fishing at best; there's nothing quite like sneaking up on a run full of trout that are spending their lives being scrutinized, or better yet traumatized by so many fly fishermen of all ability levels. That's why I go on Thursday, and I get there oh-dark-thirty early so I might enjoy maybe three, sometimes up to four hours of semi-solitude. If it's a warm day and the wind holds off there'll be thirty guys there by noon, most of them stomping up and down both sides of the creek, their presence always preceded by bow wakes streaming toward whatever deeper water the bow wake makers can find. The banks are a loamy mud honeycombed with holes and tunnels, a by-product of any area populated by muskrats, otters, weasels, and snakes, so any and or all vibrations echo underwater, alerting the fish (and the varmints) to the presence of human activity. And when this echo exceeds maximum tolerance levels, the fish simply hunker down and refuse to act like fish. I would too. It's insanity.
That being said, there is an upside, albeit a bit twisted, to fishing 'The Ford' when there seems to be a body at every opening in the cattails which is another reason I get there as early as possible short of spending the night in my rig. I like to stake my claim early on. Occupy a piece of water, usually one I've come to understand as well as is possible, so that when the traffic increases I will 'own' a stretch that I feel is to my advantage. I think anybody who's experienced this sort of fishing would agree that there is an added dimension that comes into play when three or four fly lines are in the air at the same time all plying for the same piece of water.
Most fly fishermen openly abhor the idea of fishing competition. The idea of hooking trout in an atmosphere that totally belies the inherent nature of the 'sport' would, to most, seem outside the realm of what fishing with flies is all about. And, for the most part, I would heartily subscribe to that philosophy. However, and I've seen it happen over and over again, when there are several fishermen parrying over the same stretch of water, anyone who thinks that it's anything but an all out battle for that first take, and then the most hookups is purely and simply not understanding what's going on. It's all disguised, of course, in a friendly, convivial gloss; relaxed queries and casual responses dealing with vague references about fish already caught, the flies, maybe a benign comment about the weather, but the intensity is palpable. Soon enough the pleasantries fade as the combatants get down to it, eyes and ears alert to anything that may assist in the divining of a clue. Looking for the sign that will provide an edge. Running those just concluded innocent conversations through their heads over and over looking for tidbits of vital information that may have been inadvertently passed.
Not all who partake in this 'leisurely' battle of wits are equipped with the cunning necessary. Indeed most are ill-prepared for the mental demands of this seemingly impromptu contest. Being the first fisherman to occupy a space others may find attractive gives me an edge. That, and the fact that I'd been playing this game for years before I realized what was actually taking place.
Most fly fishers don't understand that if and when you are in situations where fishable water is at a premium due to an overabundance of fishermen, then all sorts of subterfuge are possible. False information, dubious claims, outright lies, promises of 'lots' of fish just downstream a ways. I've heard it all. And fell for it many times. Friendly attempts at conversation all too often designed to put you at ease. Don't fall for friendly smiles and seemingly innocent banter if it seems too slick; too choreographed. It's all by design. Keep your secrets close. Betray nothing. Master the art of doublespeak. Be courteous and friendly while keeping your distance. Learn the art of ambiguity and apply it to questions concerning anything you consider an encroachment. And most importantly, take every tidbit of information too easily dispensed with a few grains of salt. It's a lot like life, in that regard.
So now it's Friday. I'm glad I didn't get this posted because I had the occasion yesterday to (finally) get acquainted with a couple of gentlemen I've been seeing out at 'The Ford' for years. They're a couple of characters.
Rich and Bob are 80. They've been fishing buddies for years, and through the years as I've watched them out of the corner of my eye I've come to the conclusion that they're pretty damned good fishermen. Every Thursday about 7:15 in the morning they roll in and shortly after that they'll make their way up the trail past me and holler a good morning as they head upstream to their favorite sections. They don't stay all day, but they do pretty well for the few hours that they're on the water. It got be about 10, and the fishing was good but the catching slow, so I headed back to my rig for a roast beef sandwich. Turns out that Rich and Bob had the same idea. They were sitting in their Subaru alternately munching and napping, which on a warm late morning would not be hard to do. I introduced myself, finally, after all these years, and found them to be as engaging and colorful as I thought they'd be. Then, as I headed back to the water, I had an idea. I'd get a picture of them. They were thrilled when I asked if either one of them had an e-mail address because I'd send the pic to them. And there you have it; my two Rocky Ford fishing buddies.
Slow day catching fish. No big deal. I landed several, finally, after deciding that I'd have to do some hunting and pecking. Get out the boxes and tippet spools. Do some leg work. It's not always off the menu. I knew that when I hooked the fish of the day with my trusty Spokane River soft hackle. The fishing's always good, and it's great just 'to be here', but a sudden jolting hookup ain't too bad either.
Posted by Steve Moss at 4/19/2013 No comments:
March 14, 2013
On the perpetual process of reinvention.
"One of the most difficult accomplishments in fly-tying is to reexamine an established category and do it better and more simply."
Thomas McGuane, p.68, The Longest Silence
|Classic TDR Soft Hackle
"Certainly in the end we cast a fly on the water for the same basic reason that we test a hypothesis or read a story - we want to see how it all comes out."
Ted Leeson, p.146, Inventing Montana
I know it works. For close to ten years now I've carried several of them, in three different sizes, although I most often favor a #18. And really, it's changed only subtly since its inception, trial period, and subsequent addition to my go-to box. I've been summarily amazed time and time again at its ability to cover so many bases; nearly always adapting well to a variety of methods and situations. I wish all of my boxes were filled with flies that engender so much confidence.
Of course we all strive for that, whether we tie our own or not. That every fly will fill a particular void. That for every fly there is a purpose or situation. A fly that represents another chance to solve, even if only temporarily, a mystery, or to uncannily stay ahead of the curve without missing a beat.
It would, because of this somewhat bottomless hope, seem easy to think that we have ridiculously lofty aspirations; I myself would never admit (publicly) to seriously pursuing this. Not to anyone who didn't share the same inner conviction, anyway. Nothing like opening yourself up to awkward silences and sidelong glances. Why is it that in vocalizing the unspeakable you somehow cross this mystical line from respect into lunacy? We all pursue it tirelessly, whether we buy our flies or construct them ourselves. Yet the dream remains an unspeakable one. A laughable fantasy at best. Not, however, to me.
I'll add one more facet to this fantasy. I'd like to decrease the number of flies I carry by improving my techniques. Produce more with less. Perfect simple patterns that cover more bases because I understand and know how to utilize them in more situations. In my mind's eye that is the nexus. That is where I wish to go. For a lot of fishermen, it's go-to boxes or a go-to fly or the hottest new pattern or the hell with this spot I'm moving downstream. But after all's been aired out and they're standing there still scratching their heads, well then what's left? It seems to me as I've observed fishermen over the years that if there's one common denominator missing from the equation it's technique. It's the lack of repertoire on the fisherman's part. This is often the case with those of us who pretty much carry a fly shop with us to the river. It subverts our attention from the possibility of a combination of technique and fly working together. Focus is too sharply trained on the fly. It's gotta be the fly, they think, and they rummage tirelessly through all of them over and over looking for the magic that might have revealed itself to them six flies ago had their method of presentation been more adroit.
All of us who fish with flies do it that way for different reasons, although it wouldn't be hard for me to divide most of us into maybe two or three main groups. One of those would be the 'OH' group. 'OH' for obsessive. That's where I'd be. The criteria for admission into this group is simple; have an overriding obsession with any/and or/all aspects of attracting trout/fish to eat your fly, and live for the take. Here are some prerequisites -
1) Spending way too much of what should have been profitable, constructive (in a normal person's eyes) time at the vise on a regular basis puzzling over how to create a simple fly that works in a variety of situations.
2) Devoting three or more sections in your box to flies with only the subtlest of variation from your control (favorite) fly.
3) Keeping the number of variations to a bare minimum so you have a pretty good idea as to what's working and what isn't.
4) Fishing these flies for as many consecutive days as you can to determine true adaptability to as many situations as possible for as much of each consecutive day as is possible.
5) Taking all the input you've gathered and starting all over again at the vise.
If you satisfy these, then you belong with me in the 'OH' group.
Everyone else need not apply. They're only going through the motions.
The other day I was going through some of my fly boxes, busily sorting the wheat from the chaff, so to speak. After working away for a while, I sat back and realized how many flies I've been carrying that never made it to the water. For years! Literally hundreds of them! I collected and emptied the whole pile of them into the pint glass I keep for such occasions, nearly filling it. I then sat back, laughed out loud, then and there swearing an oath to keep my approach to tying and carrying flies as austere as possible. Here it is more than three weeks later now and it makes even better sense. If I streamline my scheme I make better use of time, resource, and intellect. Time spent hashing through flies is not time well spent.
I'll add one more facet to this fantasy. I'd like to decrease the number of flies I carry by improving my techniques. Produce more with less. Perfect simple patterns that cover more bases because I understand and know how to utilize them in more situations. In my mind's eye that is the nexus. That is where I wish to go. For a lot of fishermen, it's go-to boxes or a go-to fly or the hottest new pattern or the hell with this spot I'm moving downstream. But after all's been aired out and they're standing there still scratching their heads, well then what's left? It seems to me as I've observed fishermen over the years that if there's one common denominator missing from the equation it's technique. It's the lack of repertoire on the fisherman's part. This is often the case with those of us who pretty much carry a fly shop with us to the river. It subverts our attention from the possibility of a combination of technique and fly working together. Focus is too sharply trained on the fly. It's gotta be the fly, they think, and they rummage tirelessly through all of them over and over looking for the magic that might have revealed itself to them six flies ago had their method of presentation been more adroit.
All of us who fish with flies do it that way for different reasons, although it wouldn't be hard for me to divide most of us into maybe two or three main groups. One of those would be the 'OH' group. 'OH' for obsessive. That's where I'd be. The criteria for admission into this group is simple; have an overriding obsession with any/and or/all aspects of attracting trout/fish to eat your fly, and live for the take. Here are some prerequisites -
1) Spending way too much of what should have been profitable, constructive (in a normal person's eyes) time at the vise on a regular basis puzzling over how to create a simple fly that works in a variety of situations.
2) Devoting three or more sections in your box to flies with only the subtlest of variation from your control (favorite) fly.
3) Keeping the number of variations to a bare minimum so you have a pretty good idea as to what's working and what isn't.
4) Fishing these flies for as many consecutive days as you can to determine true adaptability to as many situations as possible for as much of each consecutive day as is possible.
5) Taking all the input you've gathered and starting all over again at the vise.
If you satisfy these, then you belong with me in the 'OH' group.
Everyone else need not apply. They're only going through the motions.
The other day I was going through some of my fly boxes, busily sorting the wheat from the chaff, so to speak. After working away for a while, I sat back and realized how many flies I've been carrying that never made it to the water. For years! Literally hundreds of them! I collected and emptied the whole pile of them into the pint glass I keep for such occasions, nearly filling it. I then sat back, laughed out loud, then and there swearing an oath to keep my approach to tying and carrying flies as austere as possible. Here it is more than three weeks later now and it makes even better sense. If I streamline my scheme I make better use of time, resource, and intellect. Time spent hashing through flies is not time well spent.
I have recently, after some years of distance, reconnected with a close friend who years ago became that close friend because his fishing and tying philosophies closely reflected mine. It's fascinating to discover that even through the ten or so years while we were absent from each other's journey, through the years of separate fishing lives and experiences where our arcs basically totally diverged, we have nonetheless arrived (again) at the same place at the same time. I was sitting patiently in a semi-dark theatre waiting for the annual traveling fish-porn show to start, heard my name called, and there he was. And then a week later at the yearly steelhead porn show there he was again. It didn't take long to plan a fishing foray and a few days later there we were at 0-dark-thirty blasting west on I-90 on a fishing expedition trading lies, theories and hypotheses concerning our favorite subjects, all of which centered around fishing with and the tying of soft hackled flies. Dan's so into it he's even conceptualized and tied a series of them for steelhead, his foremost obsession. I've been fortunate to have seen a few of them and they are impressive. I know he's on to something good. They just simply look fishy. The fact that they tugged at something deep within me should not go unmentioned; I've been inspired enough to set aside time to create some of my own. For good reason, of course, because Dan's got a trailer he hauls down to the Clearwater in the late summer. What an advantage it would be for me, eh?
We share another obsession. Fishing the Spokane with soft hackled flies. It's been several years since we fished the river together, but his flies also reflect a similar, 'less is better' style. We may differ as to what the more prominent 'triggers' may be, but the idea that a simplistic approach is more desirable has captured our eyes and imaginations.
Of course the work, the trial and error, and the conjecture goes on and on. Even though I have an essential ingredient for somewhat consistent success in my possession, there will always be room for another, and another after that. But the road to success is best covered one brick at a time.
Keep it simple. Always.
We share another obsession. Fishing the Spokane with soft hackled flies. It's been several years since we fished the river together, but his flies also reflect a similar, 'less is better' style. We may differ as to what the more prominent 'triggers' may be, but the idea that a simplistic approach is more desirable has captured our eyes and imaginations.
Of course the work, the trial and error, and the conjecture goes on and on. Even though I have an essential ingredient for somewhat consistent success in my possession, there will always be room for another, and another after that. But the road to success is best covered one brick at a time.
Keep it simple. Always.
Posted by Steve Moss at 3/14/2013 No comments:
November 15, 2012
The fly.
The fly, we reason, is what makes things happen, and so using a different one should make things happen differently.
Ted Leeson, Patterns of Behavior, Inventing Montana
Always look at what you have left. Never look at what you have lost.
Robert Schuller
It's almost noon on a humid, chilly Friday. The weather this morning had been patient with me until about a half hour ago, but that has run its course. Rain falls from the dense grayness of the early November sky, contrasted against the forest green of the trees across the river, while I work methodically, carefully down. The rain's not such a big deal if I'm further down the river. But now, I work against time, having chosen the Cemetery Run. It's enticing to me, with its curious blend of seams and fierce riffle. The problem is, I'm just downstream from the mouth of Latah (Hangman, if you're a native) Creek, which, when the rains come, is notorious for quickly going off-color and shortly after that spewing it's effluvial flush into the river, effectively buttoning fish lips and putting them down, way down, often for days.
The lure of this stretch of water lies in the frequent 'pushes'. The fierce flow of the main riffle periodically sends pulses of hydraulic upwellings downstream and across into the softer water on the inside (my side) of the slight bend that entails the hundred and few odd yards of this particular stretch. I find them interesting because I've hooked a lot of fish when first I got lucky and then after putting some thought into it began to time my casts so that my swinging fly would be caught up in the front edge of the advancing push. On several occasions I've had solid strikes when it's near the end of its swing and gets swept up in the vertically rolling current. My thinking, upon observation after experiencing a few violent takes is that a couple of things may be at work here. The first theory is that the vertically oriented twisting of the current alters the path of my fly line or leader, causing a sudden change in the path of my fly, which is almost always a soft hackle or a two fly rig. The second explanantion is easier to understand in that I treat the edges of the 'push' as I would a classic seam, which is really what they are, except that they're temporary. When the push spends itself, the seam simply goes away. After seriously working these anomalies over the past few weeks both here and at different locations on the river, I'll try, when I see a 'push' coming, to put my fly at the front or slightly ahead of it. The trout seem to know that 'push' will carry food and are waiting at the deep edge of the softer water on cue to snap at anything that gets collected and resembles a meal. The takes are usually quite solid, meaning that either there may have been some effort put into chasing down the target rather than having it come by at a more or less constant speed. Or, it's a take that is similar to the 'snatch and grab' technique employed in the seam off of a faster flow. This is all merely conjecture on my part and should not be taken seriously, unless, of course, you've maybe experienced a similar phenomenon. Having said that, a lot of fly fishermen are often hesitant to subscribe to anything other than their own time-tested, although maybe not as consistently successful routines, although they'd be quick to enroll should they step out of their box and discover otherwise.
I watch the latest surge slowly spend itself in the soft water directly downstream and start my retrieve slowly with one long, slow pull. The belly in my fly line, which now more closely resembles a lazy 's' as the push disintegrates unevenly, instantly begins, at great speed, to straighten, then quickly transfers itself in the form of a solid pull to my rod. "I'll be damned! Wonder which one he ate", I query no one in particular (I admit to talking to myself more and more as I age), tighten on him, raise my rod and am amazed for a second or two at the fact that he ate when at that point I'm amazed that it's a larger rainbow than I thought who quickly realizes he's hooked and with a single effective seizure-like shake breaks me off. I stand silently, hands down for a few moments amazed at what just transpired, then strip back line to see what kind of damage the fish did to my two fly rig. Upon inspection I discover that he'd escaped with my bottom fly; in this case a #18 classic TDR soft hackle.
Depending on the circumstances, losing a fly to a fish can be no big deal or, if it's the result of something I did poorly or not at all, it is cause for immediate and severe self recrimination. But, even though I may have in all likelihood screwed up, the fish still ate my fly and that's something to feel good about. Of course, if it was the fish of the day and I've nothing to show for it but empty tippet, you can bet I'll be muttering.
There are events in our lives that are 'light bulb' moments. I've had so many of these in my life as a fisherman/tier that it gets hard to keep track of them all. Then add to that the fact that I fish the Spokane and you've got THE light bulb moment times ten. That one all by itself still ranks right up there in the top half of the top ten. It opened my eyes. But, and more importantly, I feel that because I chose the Spokane, I finally began to fully comprehend what it takes to be a competent and self-sustaining fly tier. Understanding that began very quickly to translate itself into making me a better fisherman. Not only because I got more proficient at the vise; that in turn affected my need to improve my skills with the rod. Even perfect flies won't catch fish if they're not worked properly, or in the correct situations.
The absolute thrill of hooking fish on flies I've conceptualized, created, and perfected are without exception the most satisfying moments of my life. Nothing, save for the birth of my sons will even come close. And, as mentioned in previous posts, it adds a healthy dose of adrenalin to every take.
There are a lot of ways to learn to tie flies, some good, some not so good, and then there was my way. Almost from the outset I was, for all intents and purposes, on my own. I had zero credible input. Other than my fishing, my father, my mind's eye and the elementary primer included in the kit were all I had as standards of measure. But, I knew the one big thing going in; it was not going to happen overnight. It was a foregone conclusion that time was the bank. To be a fly tier was to understand that perseverance over time was a sound investment.
My dad wasn't a tier, but he'd seen a lot of flies. His was the gospel of Dan Bailey in the form of first a fly catalogue that would arrive every December, and then, periodically through the next few months, boxes of flies ordered through the mail. I will always remember his 'ruck sack', the army-olive ruck sack that served as his repository. It was stuffed with so many boxes of Dan Bailey flies that I had to wonder why he had so many! Hundreds of them! Most all of them were dries save for a couple of small boxes of woolly worms way down at the bottom, which told me that they were not in use very often. That bag went with him everywhere every time he went fishing! Dad embodied the characteristics of those fly fishers who are bought and sold by eye candy. In his mind, a beautiful fly equated to success on the water, and the more he had, why the better the chances were. I really don't know how many he ever really used. His boxes were tediously sorted, kept updated and absolutely chock full, terribly revealing about the man that owned them. I'd spend hours going through each box, closely examining each fly, asking questions like, where do you use this one?, or, when do you use this one, etc? And I don't ever remember him tiring of my constant, somewhat repetitious inquiries. Talking fishing and flies, even if it was with a son who had yet to really understand the depth and magnitude of his involvement, was always worth the time.
I look back on those first years of tying knowing that it probably would have been beneficial to have actually had some real, one-on-one instruction though in reality it would be years before I received any viable input, not having the confidence in even my embryonic abilities to feel comfortable asking for guidance. It was fun, a bit satisfying and at the same time frustrating, knowing what I wanted to see but not having the ability level to bring it to fruition. But, looking back now, I guess I don't have any regrets. It's a work in progress, but I've become adept at visualizing what I want to create and along the way have invented and perfected many of my own methods while developing into a pretty decent tier without any real mentoring, and that ends up feeling very satisfying.
The years progressed as I became more and more interested in the Spokane River. My flies and methods for fishing them were continually evolving. I was, for a lot of years not aware of that many people who fished the Spokane as much or as often as I did. Actually, it never even occurred to me to find out. I was tying flies and fishing, completely, blissfully immersed in my own little world at the vise and on the water. Of course, some days were better than others, that will always be a reality. But, somewhere along the line it began to dawn on me, probably after a few successive days of utter frustration, that maybe the bad days were, in the long run, probably more important than I'd ever thought. So instead of basically going through the motions for a few hours or until the frustration got too unmanageable whereupon I'd throw in the towel, I decided to stay engaged, and I began see that bad days, especially a string of them, while being a great leveling device, were also plateaus from which I could more impartially examine and evaluate my schemes, whether it might mean fly, fishing method, time of day, and so on. Fly fishermen are sometimes quick to let the ego get over-inflated with a little success and just as quick to doubt their whole program during the slack times. I was/am no different in that regard. The thing that separated me from most others was the fact that I had only myself to fall back on when I'd ring up zeroes, and no one to boast to when I kicked ass. Fishing alone makes it easier to get shut out and not have it be such a big deal, although it can be just as frustrating when it's been a fish-filled day. I wasn't very far into my years of fishing when I discovered this. Who's going to believe you? Luckily I didn't have anyone to tell, either way, so it was easier to develop a 'convenient amnesia' through the shut outs, a quiet pride through the successes and continue on, always aware of the constant probability in balance between the good days and the bad.
My testing ground for my flies, being the same water that I've fished for all these years now, continues to thrill, frustrate, and confuse me. But, like a faithful companion, it scolds as often as it cradles me, admonishing me in subtle ways to always keep my head clear. It is my staunchest supporter or severest critic, most always willing to forgive as long as I respect what it preaches; keep sight of what is essential and jettison that which is merely superfluous. When I forget, disavow or allow too much of my ego to show, the river sternly takes me to task.
In an early post I described the first flies I tied. Pheasant tail nymphs and wooly buggers were the most commonplace, gradually giving way to attempts at dry flies. At this point I was beginning to frequent sporting goods stores and then actual specialty shops where I could examine the flies that were for sale. I began to buy a few flies, mostly very simple patterns, so I could take them home and attempt to tie them. This practice proved to be worthwhile. With one of these copies, a yellow-bodied #16 soft hackle I tasted my first success on the Spokane. It was a watershed experience. I was seriously, totally hooked for life at the instant of that take. Standing knee deep in a swirling back eddy wearing my father's leaky neoprene waders under a pair of plain hiking boots, I knew then that this was just the beginning of a lifelong adventure.
I tie flies for and fish the Spokane River. Now almost exclusively. All of my energies relating to the tying bench reflect this obsession with the fish there. Not to say that the flies I create wouldn't work elsewhere. The simple truth of it is that they do. I've had tremendous success with my classic soft hackle as well as with various dries, especially those relating to the caddis family, at venues like the Henry's Fork, the Beaverhead and the Missouri, in B.C. on the Elk and also up on the higher reaches of the North Fork of the Couer d'Alene and the St. Joe, to mention just a few. I have the utmost confidence in being able to 'match the hatch', no matter what mayfly or terrestrial may be predominant at the time. And I'm not afraid to get down and dirty with streamer patterns like my newest wool-headed sculpin.
But the fly that keeps me enchanted year after year after year is the soft hackle. That fly, and the methods by which it can be fished have, year in and year out, provided me with more hours of joy and satisfaction than all the others put together. Of course, in saying that I could mention the opposite side of that coin which brings into focus all the hours of frustrating consternation when they let me down. But that wouldn't be correct, because they rarely do. It is I that lets me down. I'll attempt to explain.
In the past oh, let's say ten years, I've developed a variety, a significant number, of soft hackles just for the Spokane. I say 'just', because it's in reality been quite awhile since I've fished anywhere else, other than my winter fishing on a slow-moving spring creek west of town which bears little or no resemblance to the Spokane for which I've also developed several productive patterns which include, of all things, a soft hackle. But save for a blue-winged olive pattern that I'll use elsewhere, those flies are pretty location specific, the nature of spring creeks being what it is.
I've got three distinctly different types of soft hackle in my box, and six if you count the swimming caddis patterns. The three 'real' softee patterns are all similarly colored and constructed, the difference being in the amount of weight I'll use. Most of the time I'll use a few wraps of lead (substitute) on the shank, and to be more specific, I'll use more or fewer wraps depending on the water speed and how deep I want the fly to be when it starts its arcing swing back across. I've come to understand the importance of working different depths.
This year I got pretty taken with the challenges presented in swinging flies through faster water. Takes in the fiercest flows are nothing short of electrifying, and I found that by using a tungsten bead along with a few wraps of lead I increase the odds that my soft hackle is going to arouse some interest as it swings through. It's always amazing to me when I hook up in fiercely flowing chutes. I wonder how a fish could not only be in there but also have the wherewithal to attack possible prey. But, in saying that I admit to looking at those fast chutes through very human eyes. I can't possibly see the bottom with its holding lies and compressions that undoubtedly provide good cover while being an excellent platform from which to obtain food. But what I have begun to understand are the surface characteristics I should look for which will give me the best chance for success. There are fish, more often than not of decent size, in those places so it's a matter of understanding where, and how best to get the fly through it. The beauty of fishing this way lies in the fact that the fish will usually attack without reservation. They know they've only got one shot before it's past them, thus the solid, often crushing takes. And, more often than not you'll see the take. Even with a tungsten bead and wraps of lead, that fly is coming across, depending on the speed of the flow, at or very near the surface. It's quite a visual to experience. Adrenalin management is paramount, otherwise you'll be tying on another fly.
The two flies pictured above are my current favorites for my two fly setup. The top fly is the caddis. It's a derivation of a standard Troth-style dry, and came to be because of the success of tugging on the line and pulling the dry one under at the end of a drift. All I did was omit the hackle on the body, add a copper rib, and either some partridge or dyed brown hen neck, sparingly, after I tied in the wing. I've got similarly flies with several different colored wings depending on what I see actually on the water at the time, but the olive-winged version seems to be the most consistent.
The soft hackle (trailer) is small, lightly weighted, and is often eaten when fished by itself right before BWOs are seen on the surface. It's basically just another caddis imitation, but I also think it imitates an emerging olive nymph being swept in the current. It's hard to be sure, especially because I see such a good number of caddis on the water pretty constantly during the cooler mornings and also in the late afternoon to past sunset.
As always, even though these particular flies have found a home in my box, they're still a work in progress. Everything I fish the Spokane with is in a constant state of change. It would be terrible to wake up one morning and not wonder what I might do differently, or better. For me, that's the name of the game.
Posted by Steve Moss at 11/15/2012 No comments:
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Since we talked about shooting indoors last time, today we are going to practice shooting in manual outdoors. (If you have a point and shoot, this may not apply much to you but please feel free to practice taking pictures outside to see what your camera can do!) All the settings still change the same way, but now you will typically have much more light than you do indoors. You probably had low shutter speed, low aperture, and high ISO inside. The opposite will be a good starting point for taking pictures outside; high shutter speed, can do a higher aperture if you want, and lower ISO.
Quick Reminder from yesterday:
1.SS- higher makes the picture darker, lower makes the picture brighter, need higher for more movement
2. Aperture- higher makes the picture darker, lower makes the picture brighter
3. ISO- higher makes the picture brighter, lower makes the picture darker
If you are outside, lots of people aim for 'open shade'. This is where you are in the shade (duh!) but you still can get nice light on the people's face and catch light in their eyes. So you can sit towards the edge of the shade under a tree, for example, and still face the sun without squinting or having harsh light then it would likely be a pretty picture. However, probably like your kiddos, mine aren't inclined to play nicely in pretty positions in open shade all the time. So you need to be able to take photos anywhere outside.
Using the same thought process as last time when we discussed indoor photos, let's practice outdoor photos!
1. SS: I usually start around 1/500 depending on the time of day and if I am in the shade or not.
2. Aperture: I still like to use low aperture b/c I like blurry backgrounds. But you can bump this up especially when shooting a lot of people in the frame.
3. ISO: If it is during the bright part of the day I start at 100. If it is towards the end of the day I start at 400 since it will be getting darker the longer I am outside.
Here are some outdoor examples.
1. Thomas playing in the fountains: Definitely not open shade, but this was in the morning around 10am.
Low ISO since it was bright outside and high SS since it was bright
2. John at the ballpark. This was open shade since we were in the shaded part of the stadium.
SS is lower than the previous picture since this wasn't as sunny being that we were in the shade and this was about 6:00 p.m. However, the SS is much higher than when I was taking photos inside since I don't need as much light in my camera when I am outside.
3. Playing at the lake. Not open shade, morning sun.
Since it was bright out, high SS helps keep too much light from entering the camera.
4. Boys at the lake: Not open shade, morning sun. However, if the hat were big enough, and we were facing the sun, it could put some shade on Matthew's face and create open shade.
Again, lower ISO since we are outside without shade to block the sun, and higher SS to take a faster picture to block out more of the light.
5. Thomas playing during 'golden hour' which is the 2 hours before sunset. You can see how pretty the light is coming through the trees behind him.
He is facing away from the sun so that is why I upped the ISO. I probably could have also lowered the SS to help let more light in the camera instead of upping the ISO.
7. Large family at the beach:
This one is back lit which is more tricky. I raised the aperture since I have several people in the picture. It was at night so I left the ISO at 400 so I wouldn't forget to change it as it got darker.
A couple notes:
-Taking pictures at noon is not a great idea because that will be harder to do. If possible you might avoid that.
-Taking pictures early in the morning (as the sun is coming up) and at the end of the day (as the sun is setting) will give really pretty light. Those are my favorite times to take pictures (although not always opportune times with little kids and work schedules!) If you are hiring someone to take your family photos, be sure to get those time slots to get the prettiest pictures.
-Since your SS usually will be high, your photos shouldn't be too blurry due to movement. This means that you should be able to catch your kids as they are running and still get a great photo!
-Since I am still pretty new, there are times we are playing outside and it is bright and I can't see my screen very well and I can't seem to get my settings right and, and, and, and....then I just put the camera down and forget about it. Unless it is a birthday party or something important, then it isn't worth the frustration to me. I will just try again later. No big deal!
Time for you to go outside and practice! Practice finding shady spots and sunny spots so you can change up the settings. Try facing your subject towards the sun to get the catch lights in their eyes. Also practice putting the subject several feet away from the background (ie the wall, fence, bushes, etc). This will change the depth of the photo too. Share some of your favorite shots, even if they aren't perfect!
Experienced photographers- feel free to share tips or more info on facebook. Perhaps you can try some new photos outside over the next couple days: new locations, a garage photo shoot, taking a wide angle if you usually use narrow. Maybe take photos of of an activity outside that is usually done inside (ex: bubble bath, eating breakfast). Take a photo of outside nature or pets if you usually take a photo of people. Take a photo of a small toy in random open shade locations (mailbox, anyone?).
Next time we will talk briefly about focus points. See you then!
Please be a fan of lil Mop Top on facebook!! I link up to these parties!

subset: commoncrawl


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Joan Benoit-Samuelson, who set a world best of 2 hours 21 minutes 21 seconds in the America's Marathon in Chicago last year, was named the winner of the Sullivan Award Monday night as the U.S. Amateur Athletic Union's top athlete for 1985.
Benoit-Samuelson, 28, of Freeport, Me., became only the seventh female winner in the award's 56-year history.
Last year's Sullivan Award winner, diver Greg Louganis, presented the award to Benoit-Samuelson at a dinner at the Indianapolis Convention Center.
Benoit-Samuelson won the women's marathon at the Los Angeles Olympics in 1984 and last year, besides her performance at Chicago, she also won a 12-kilometer race at San Francisco last May and a 7-miler at Davenport, Iowa, in July. In August she returned to her native New England to win the 7.1-mile Falmouth Road Race.
Benoit-Samuelson and sprinter Valerie Brisco-Hooks, who set four world indoor marks last year, were finalists for the second consecutive year.
Other finalists included world-record triple jumper Willie Banks, USC women's basketball player Cheryl Miller, volleyball player Charles (Karch) Kiraly, swimmer Matt Biondi, golfer Scott Verplank, wrestler Mike Houck, synchronized swimmer Sarah Josephson, and diver Michele Mitchell.


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Mykhailo Minakov. A Short History of Color Revolutions
Tamara Martsenyuk. Ukrainian Politics: Women Are Not Welcome?
Tamara Hundorova. "Verka Serdiuchka's Mask: Feminization of Transgression in Post-Totalitarian Culture
Igor Torbakov. A Parting of Ways: The Russian (Imperial) State and Russian Nationalism in Historical Perspective
Oleksandr Potekhin. An Apology for a Geopolitical Syndrome
Andreas Umland. The Eurasian Projects of Putin and Dugin: Searching for a Match
John-Paul Himka. Myths of National Consolidation, the Holodomor, and the Holocaust: A Response to Roman Serbyn
Roman Serbyn. On the Ukrainian Genocide, Lemkin, and Himkian Dialectics
Geoffrey Wheatcroft. What Rupert Hath Wrought
Maksym Karpovets. All That Jazz Pattern
Vasyl Makhno. Green Dog Days
The July–August, 2012 issue of Krytyka opens with "A Short History of Color Revolutions" by the Ukrainian political scientist and analyst Mykhailo Minakov who reviews the consequences of the color revolutions in various post-Soviet countries, the interpretations of the phenomenon that have appeared since that time, and the lessons that transition societies can learn from them.
In her "Ukrainian Politics: Women Are Not Welcome?" sociologist Tamara Martsenyuk of the Kyiv-Mohyla Academy examines women's access to Ukrainian politics, in particular the number of women that stand for public office, their quota in the party lists of candidates, and also the public opinion on the matter. Tamara Hundorova of the Institute of Literature of the Ukrainian Academy of Sciences elaborates on this issue by focusing on the gender factor and its performative and imagological forms as well as its functions in Ukrainian transitional social media. In her "Verka Serdiuchka's Mask: Feminization of Transgression in Post-Totalitarian Culture" Professor Hundorova analyzes the public images of the famous drag-queen Verka Sierdiuchka (Andrii Danylko) and former prime minister (now political prisoner) Yulia Tymoshenko. The second part of this article will appear in the next issue of Krytyka.
Igor Torbakov, senior fellow at the Center for Russian and Eurasian Studies of Uppsala University (Sweden), explores in his article "A Parting of Ways: The Russian (Imperial) State and Russian Nationalism in Historical Perspective" the complicated issues of the inherent tension between the notions of Russkii and Rossiiskii, the relationship between the ethno-cultural and the political understandings of Russianness, and the parting of ways between Russian nationalists and the Kremlin leadership.
In his "An Apology for a Geopolitical Syndrome" Oleksandr Potekhin, Professor and Head of the Humanities Studies Department at Kyiv Law University of the National Academy of Sciences of Ukraine, focuses on the profound contradictions and ambiguities in the approach to Kremlin foreign policy in the book Post-Imperium: a
Eurasian Story by Dmitri Trenin, the director of the Carnegie Moscow Center.
Andreas Umland, associate professor of political science at the Kyiv-Mohyla Academy in his piece "The Eurasian Projects of Putin and Dugin: Searching for a Match" highlights the divergences in the Eurasianist visions of Russian president Vladimir Putin and ideologist Alexander Dugin that exist despite the common origins and backgrounds these visions share. The author argues that Dugin rather serves as a foil here, setting off in this fashion Putin's idea of a "Eurasian Union," the approach Putin had outlined as his foreign policy initiative before coming back to the presidency in 2011 John-Paul Himka, history professor at the University of Alberta, and Canadian historian Roman Serbyn, professor emeritus at the Universitй du Quebec а Montreal, continue their earlier discussion (see Krytyka #6, 2012).
In his "Myths of National Consolidation, the Holodomor, and the Holocaust: A Response to Roman Serbyn" John-Paul Himka responds to some important points Roman Serbyn raised in his "Erroneous Methods in J. – P. Himka's Challenge to Ukrainian Myths", with special focus on their disagreements regarding the attitude one takes to national myths, and on the understanding of the Ukrainian genocide. Roman Serbyn in his "On the Ukrainian Genocide, Lemkin, and Himkian Dialectics" questions both John-Paul Himka's concept of genocide, and his concept of memory and memory politics.
Geoffrey Wheatcroft, British journalist and writer, recounts the details of the News of the World hacking scandal in 2007, the story of Rupert Murdoch's astonishing rise as a media mogul, and reveals his enormous influence on British politics in his "What Rupert Hath Wrought!" which appeared in The New York Review of Books (vol. 59, No. 11) and which Krytyka presents in Ukrainian translation as the exclusive partner of NYRB in Ukraine.
In his "All That Jazz Pattern" Maksym Karpovets, philosophy scholar at Ostrog Academy, explores the nuances of the apparent and the hidden links between jazz
and cinema, their unending interpenetration and the dialogue between them. Vasyl Makhno, a Ukrainian poet and essayist living in New York City, concludes the issue with "Green Dog Days," an essay on his experiences in Nicaragua during an off-season vacation.


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A Cut Above
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Shooting Womenswear at Ralph Lauren, under wraps as ever…


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Kokila shouts pari! SNS Saath Nibhaana Saathiya 16th July 2016 Episode Written Updates :- Kokila asks Krishna to do the work in the hall. Pari tries another trick to beat Gopi. Naiya opens the door and saw Gopal Kaka, He asks about Shravan. Shravan is coming downstairs. Naiya is scared as if he saw Gopal kaka then her plan will get ruined. She closed the door and lied to him. Pari asks Mona to think something else they have to leave the house. She tells her about Gopi's plan. Mona asks her to chill and just wait and watch.
Saath Nibhaana Saathiya Episode Written Updates
Naiya goes to Gopal Kaka and asks what he wants death or money. He chooses money and Naiya leaves him after a warning that if he said anything she will kill him. Prakash helps her in the plan. Urmila and Krishna share a fun moment. Kokila is glad to see them. She tries to let Gopi and him fall in love but Gopi says she got married for her only and for her swear.
No one can replace Ahem in her life. Kokila tries to make convince but Gopi is keen and still to her words. Kokila wishes to let them fall in love. Vidya tries to take Priyal in her room but Meera urges Vidya to let her stay in her room. She hands over her papers and tells Vidya that she wants to adopt her as her own child. Krishna and Gopi work together. Kokila asks everyone to take rest as tomorrow is an important day.
Vidya says she cannot do this as she is not an orphan so that she will adopt Priyal and takes Priyal with her. Naiya adds fuel to the fire and advice her to take her sign fraudulently.
Kokila asks Gopi to bring food for him. She does so and also brings medicine for him as he has a headache. He asks her to take dinner with him but she refuses.
Pari and Mona tries to steal the laptop but Kokila reaches there and shouts.


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Hey there, I'm back with the last summer card. This was such a fun card to make! The shark stamp is from Whipper Snapper Designs and is called Pool Shark. He's so stylish in those shades, don't you think?!? Ha! He was stamped three times and colored with Copic markers. Two of the images were fussy cut out and popped up on foam to make him look like he's coming right out of the paper (see the close-up pic below). A Clear Glaze pen was used on the inner tube to give it that plastic appearance. The layout was one that I saw on Mama Dini's blog. If you've never been to her blog, she's amazing!
Here's the inside...
Copic coloring:
Shark: C0, B93, B91 Inner tube: YG25, YG23, YG21, YR18, YR16, YR14, YR12, R08, R05, R02, B34, B32, BG75, BG72, BG70 Sun glasses: BV29, YG25, YG23, YG21 Bubbles: BG72, BG70
Thanks for stopping by!
STAMPS: WSD Pool Shark
PAPER: Neenah Solar White; Bazzill Raven Monochromatic; Little Yellow Bicycle Splash collection...Makin' Waves, Little Fishies, Sunkissed Starfish
INK: Memento Tuxedo Black
ACCESSORIES: Copic markers; Spellbinders Grand Calibur, Nestabilities Standard Circles Small and Large; 3/4", 1", 1 1/4", 1 3/8" circle punches; paper snips; Clear Glaze Sakura pen; SU Dimensionals; Clear and Orange Atyou Spica pens; stamp-a-ma-jig; Zig 2-way Glue pen; Sizzix Big Shot, Sunglasses #2 Sizzlets; adhesive
SIZE OF FINISHED PROJECT: 5" x 5"


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V.Y. Domingo Jewellers Inc. has a high priority in giving their online clients with secure online experience in dealing business. We devoted a great effort to ensure that your personal information is safeguarded. All your personal information is safeguarded and is stored on a secure server behind an industry –standard firewall. Even all your online transactions with us are supported by industry-standard data encryption.
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Monday, February 22, 2010
And Bula to you . . .
Just returned from a four-day cruise in Fiji, heading up and around the Yasawa Island group. After a day relaxing at the divine Sofitel hotel on Denarau Island - think pool, foot massage, back massage and gourmet dinner. Then to the marina to hop on board for a stunning Captain Cook Cruise. It is supposed to be the wet season but during the trip only encountered one crazy downpour that lasted for about 40 minutes - then back to sunshine perfect. The sea most of the time was like rolling silk. Eat (quite a lot), sleep (why not) and swim – in so many locations - pristine water, beautiful beaches, and a cave (remember the Blue Lagoon movie! That swim in the cave is in my top ten swims I've had in my life!
We visited a school to meet the kids and donate pens, pencils, books etc. The choir sang, we shed a tear and then the kids showed us around their under resourced school with great pride. They copped a hammering from last year's cyclone and are still trying to pick up the pieces.
If you've forgotten how to have a holiday without TV, email, shopping and frantic hunting and gathering of cultural 'icons', chill out in Fiji with some of the best, and most charming people on earth - Fijians.
Visit: www.captaincook.com.au
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Signs of the times
It's about to begin, the Winter Olympics 2010! And with Canada being the gracious host for the Games, I thought I would put up a couple of signs from around the town of Whistler - where much of the ski events are being held. Last I heard there was snow being dropped on a mountain close to Vancouver - glad there's no global warming.
Whistler (with heaps of snow) is fantastic - winter or summer. Magnificent countryside, mountains, forests, village and accommodation – it's the buzz whether there's a major event on or not. Do some research and find out for yourself. When you visit, try and stay at the divine Fairmont Hotel in Whistler - the views from the rooms are wonderful. If you are reading this, you probably aren't in Canada - but maybe you are. Visit: www.whistler.com
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Jimmy's Charhouse has been serving the freshest fish and hand cut steaks and chops in Libertyville since 1997. Offering soups made daily, ribs and chicken fresh from the wood burning ovens, top quality USDA steak burgers, and a full bar, Jimmy's serves it all up in a warm, laid back environment1413 Peterson RoadLibertyville, IL 60048
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At Mickey Finn's, we've been serving up handcrafted beer since 1994. We pride ourselves on our commitment to our unique ales and lagers. Our beer is all natural with no additives and preservatives. We345 N. Milwaukee AvenueLibertyville, IL 60048
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Daniel Purcell, 4th Degree
Daniel Purcell is a 4th Degree International Instructor and Examiner.
He is currently the chief instructor of the Christian Outreach Taekwon-Do school based in Toowoomba, Queensland.
Daniel first began Kung Fu martial arts training in Singapore in the early 1990's. Then attracted by the structure and science of Taekwon-Do began training under Master Daniel Sng at Island Taekwon-Do school.
Since returning to Australia in 2002 ( first as visitor then later permanent resident ) Daniel established the Toowoomba Grammar branch of Thoroughbred Taekwon-Do under the direction of Master Michael Muleta (8th degree).
Daniel has trained in an International Seminar with Grandmaster Choi Jung Hwa, as well as many seminars with Master Muleta and Master Sng.
He has the unique distinction of having 5 sons, all with Black Belts in ITF Taekwon-Do.
This school ran successfully for over a decade, with annual student numbers often up around the 100 mark.
In 2015, Mr. Purcell established the Christian Outreach Taekwon-Do as a vehicle to blend faith education with the benefits and discipline of martial arts training and values.


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Read the back of his new book Are You There, God? It's Me. Kevin., and you'll see that Charlotte-area writer Kevin Keck is having a quarter-life crisis.
Well, that is, he was when he penned the book, which is a memoir of events and escapades he experienced a few short years ago. The book, published by Bloomsbury USA and set to hit bookstores Feb. 18, includes tales of pot smoking, sex, mental breakdowns, OCD hang-ups, family and the search for God. Keck also writes pages and pages about Charlotte in the book; flip through Are You There, God? and you may recognize many of the locales and some of our city's stranger citizens. The following text is a short -- and rather Q.C.-centric -- excerpt from Keck's latest work:
(From "Chronicles," a chapter in Are You There God? It's Me. Kevin. By Kevin Keck.)
We'd been invited to the house of Lilith's dental hygienist for New Year's Eve. "They're swingers," Lilith told me when I initially resisted going; I wasn't a big fan of parties with Lilith's friends. She knew I felt I was missing something essential about life in regards to my ever-elusive group fantasy. She'd previously told me that she would do anything I wanted if I presented her with an engagement ring. I nearly asked her why she'd dropped this relationship clause, but instead I played it as cool as I possibly could, given that fulfillment of a lifelong dream was so close. Also, I was happy to have the ring subject dropped period. In the preceding months, Lilith had relentlessly been dropping hints that what she wanted more than anything else in this world for Christmas was an engagement ring. A lot of this pressure emanated from her mother, a Charlotte socialite who adhered to the quaint notion that a girl was destined to be an old maid if she wasn't wed by the age of twenty-five. Lilith was teetering on the brink of spinsterhood, and thus if we were watching television and a commercial for a jeweler's came on, she'd comment along the lines of "That's a pretty ring -- that's the sort of ring I'd like." Even if she was in another room when the advertisements commenced, she would step into the doorway for the duration just in case a commercial featuring engagement rings came on. Perhaps she thought she was being subtle, but it's difficult to fail to notice that someone only provides commentary when a specific piece of jewelry flashes on the screen; it was a Pavlovian response to be marveled at, which I would have had I not been the target of her programming.
Besides, even if I had the desire to be married, I certainly didn't have the money; I taught college part-time, and that's enough to eek out an existence for me. I don't see why I should work hard to own a home and drive a nice car, or the point of winning any sort of game, when we're all just going to end up dead anyway. Why bother? Better to spend your time like Thoreau, working as little as possible and doing as much of what you like while you're here. Such an attitude prevents one from accumulating the capital necessary to purchase precious metals, but it does offer the luxury of acquiring a gift card to Target, and as Lilith liked buying knickknacks for the apartment, I thought that a gift with the possibility for fulfilling a variety of desires was a splendid idea.
Lilith and I started out the door around nine on New Year's Eve to walk to the party; winter is often nonexistent in North Carolina, and so the evening was only mildly chilly. As we turned the corner, I put my hand on Lilith's ass; she was wearing a black cocktail dress that made her look especially fuckable. A voice from a passing car yelled, "Woohoo!" and then that car stopped just ahead of us. I recognized it: it was my brother's.
He rolled down the passenger's window and said, "What up, dude? I thought I'd missed you."
I leaned down and put my head in the car. "We just got started. Some friends of Lilith's are having a party."
"Cool, I was hoping you had something planned."
I turned my head to look at Lilith; she'd lit a cigarette and was giving me the wide-eyed stare of No, absolutely no way is he coming. I put my head back in the car. "I don't know, dude. You may not be dressed properly." My brother was sporting shorts, a tie-dyed T-shirt, sandals, and a thick hemp necklace. He'd been cultivating a beard for months, though perhaps cultivation is a misleading term; he was growing a wild, hairy beast on his face.
"What the fuck, man? It's tradition that we spend New Year's together."


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LPRA Annual General Meeting 19th May 2015
We are pleased to invite you to attend the 2015 Annual General Meeting of the LPRA. The Meeting will be held at the LPRA's European HQ and Secretariat, The Innovation Farm, Sawbridgeworth Road, Little Hallingbury near Bishop's Stortford, Hertfordshire CM22 7QU UK on Tuesday 19th May 2015. If you would like to attend the meeting, add an issue to the Agenda for discussion or make a nomination for someone to join the LPRA Council please send an Email to firstname.lastname@example.com or reply to this Email. Relevant documentation / accounts and voting forms will be sent to all members nearer the date.


text: After spending some time in England, I returned home with a few old-fashioned European-style four-wheel boxcars (or goods wagons), which I then discovered in the 1888 Car Builder's Dictionary had also been used by railraods in the United States during the nineteenth century. I removed many of the characteristic British (or European) details, such as paired buffers at the end of each car, added American couplers, laminated wood planking to the roof, and on top of this I put a walkway; I also added ladder rungs and a brakewheel. This bit of kitbashing became the subject of my first long photo-article — "Only Four Wheels?" which appeared in the March 1975 Railroad Modeler [Side view of car.]


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Summer: Casino Playtime
"Area casinos ramp up promotions and entertainment for summer..."
While summer doesn't officially start until later this month, June 1 marks the start of the summer promotions and area casinos really ramp up their promotions and entertainment, knowing that many people just have a little bit more free time.
Here's a summary of activity for each of the casinos near Santa Fe that provided information to SantaFe.com:
Camel Rock
The casino closest to Santa Fe, Camel Rock, is calling its promotion the $80,000 Great Summer Getaway that includes the awarding of a 27-foot Airstream Flying Cloud Trailer on Saturday, July 28 at 10 p.m. Camel Rock will hold drawings on June 16 and 30 and July 14 and 28 from 7 p.m. to 9 p.m. for cash, gas and trips. Hot Seat drawings also will be held those days from 2 p.m. to 6 p.m.
On Fridays in June and July, the Tesuque Pueblo gaming facility is also having its $10,000 Summer Slot Tournament between 4 p.m. and 10 p.m. People with the 100 best scores will be eligible for the Grand Finale Tournament on Aug. 4 with a $5,000 first prize, $2,500 second prize and more.
The $10,000 Outlaw Blackjack Tournament is every Saturday between June 16 and April 18 with the top 49 scores eligible for the $10,000 final on Sept. 2.
Camel Rock's Father's Day Brunch (11 a.m. – 4 p.m.) is $17.99.
Entertainment at Camel Rock includes live bands every Friday night and DJs every Saturday night. The Texaco Country Showdown will be held on June 30
Buffalo Thunder
The Pojoaque casino (along with its sister casino, Cities of Gold) is promoting the $100,000 iPad & Cash Giveaway with the finale to be held on Friday, June 29.
Hot Seat drawings are every Tuesday in June from 12 noon to 8 p.m. with winners receiving a mystery gift, $25 free play and 5 free drawing entries.
Blackjack Tournaments are held every Wednesday at 8 p.m. and Texas Hold 'em No Limit Tournaments every Tuesday, Friday and Saturday at 6:30 pm.
Entertainment in June includes the Clay Walker concert on Saturday, June 16. Buffalo Thunder offers one of the few country and western venues in the area every Friday night in Club Warehouse. DJ's perform every Saturday night and live "New Mexico" music every Friday and Saturday night in the Turquoise Trail.
Cities of Gold
The other Pojoaque casino's big promotion mirrors the one at Buffalo Thunder.
The Golden Cantina is the entertainment venue at COG and features DJ's every Wednesday, Saturday and Sunday and live music every Friday.
Sports Bar
The Sports Bar, located between Cities of Gold and Buffalo Thunder, has simulcasting where you can place a bet and watch the horse or dog race. Saturday, June 9 will be a big day as the third leg of the Triple Crown---The Belmont---is taking place and there is a contender.
The Sports Bar also has DJ entertainment every Friday night.
Ohkay Casino
Ohkay Casino located north of Espanola on the highway to Taos, is continuing its Toys of Summer promotion. On Friday, June 30 three people will win and will choose from a selection of summertime "toys" or a share of $15,000 cash. Toys include ATVs and motorcycles.
Every Sunday is Father's Day at Ohkay with men eligible to win bonus play. Saturday, May 12 is being called the Pre-Father's Day Giveaway with $4,000 and three gas grills up for grabs.
Club X is the venue at Ohkay with live entertainment Wednesdays through Sundays.


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|From Guano Point at Grand Canyon West, this is the view of the Colorado River looking northwest. There are remnants here at Guano Point of a tram that once transported guano mined from a bat cave across the river. The tram isn't pictured here but you can see the rusted remains and the cave if you hike a short distance to the end of the point.