Well now, that was a long quiet stretch, during which I had a kid. I didn’t physically have a child myself–that’s women’s work. What the hell has happened to me? What seemed like a thrifty and natural pastime has resulted in hordes of demanding offspring. Therefore, fishing must be put on hold for a while. Now would be the appropriate time to lay out a few heartfelt thoughts on the joy of new life, the strong emotional bonds of parenthood, etc. I got those things, but if you want that shit, you can find it on another blog. Around here, we are about no-nonsense, serious fishing. We sing a manly, non-sentimental tune you can drink cheap beer to.
To that end, I have been out diligently teaching child #1 the harsh and very real demands of the fishing life.
 in the pond  frog  in a bucket I expect the next real fishing I’ll do will be for fall stripers on the big lakes. If things go like last year, that could start slow. (Please, please, please let the striper blitzing start by early October, this prayer I offer in Thor’s name, amen.) In the meantime, I’ll try to keep things reasonably fresh around here. I solemnly swear to think about writing deep, poignant essays on the art of fly fishing.
What did I do the last few weeks? I fished with my daughter a couple of times, fished by myself once, worked diligently for my pittance, and of course, as always, learned a heap of life lessons. Just now, in the last 5 minutes, I learned that if you accidentally pour out too much Jim Beam into your glass, you cannot squeeze the plastic bottle like a bulb syringe and suck the Beam back up for consumption at a later time. No, that elixir must be drunk immediately and let that be a lesson to me.
I suspect my child fishes better than many 2.6 year olds. She cannot cast worth a damn, nor is she adept at setting the hook. But once those tasks are accomplished, she can crank some bluegill.
 fish on I did have a good carp excursion on the weekend with experience of a handful of decent, though non-monstrous, fish. For the first time I employed a little drag-anchor off the stern and I really liked that effect. What I get on my flats is very muddy water. Early in the morning when the water is mirror flat, I can spot fish from afar as they arouse and cruise about languidly near the surface in their metaphorical boxers scratching their metaphorical assess while thinking (metaphorically) about how glad they are it is the weekend. They are hungry and visible. But after the wind kicks up I can only spot fish that are close to the boat, close to the surface, and within a narrow field of vision. When I spot them as I paddle gently along, I’m often almost on top of them or they are already passing out of sight. Paddling with the wind with the drag anchor behind, I can stop dead and stay put. Very handy.
 flat  bended  final carp Now I must cease fishing for a period to focus on the great cycle of life, specifically new life, the welcoming and nurturing of. So I’ll have to come up with something else for a while, deep philosophical essays perhaps.
Sam and I went up to the “home” creek and did some trout fishing. Things went well. Nobody else was fishing and we caught a slew of little trout on dry flies.
 fungus  boulder  stacked  sam's bow We drove off to another little stream for char. Those were the first native salmonids I’ve caught this year and they might be my last. Brookie fishing sows good karma in the soul, which is good, obviously. That is why each year I do a little of it. But I’ve never been a dedicated brook trout angler. I just like to personally verify their existence periodically. We caught a couple of fish and headed out. It was a marvelous day of fishing “just like the old days”.
 brookie
I had a little post ready last week but “technical difficulties” stemming from my notable ignorance of blog software prevented it from reaching your eager eyes. The gist was that summer proceeds apace, etc.
 blackberries  eats  another We completed our balls-to-the-wall beach weekend. Ten of us had a wild barrier island beach largely to ourselves for a few days. For the first 24 hours the wind blew a steady 25 mph out of the east. This made for perfect conditions at our camp in a grove of huge live oaks behind the dunes; cool and bugless it was. On a southern barrier island in July, expect: A) wind, or B) heat and bugs. I was happy to have the wind. But on the beach it was pretty rough with driving sand and muddy water. We went out though, and I added a fair amount of lazy bait fishing to our beach forays. Two or three casts in the tide runnels provided abundant finger mullet. We caught plenty of the typical small shit including ladyfish, blue fish, small sharks, and whiting. We ate the whiting.
 transportation  surf  mullet  ladyfish During nap time the first afternoon I slipped away along a dirt road through the marshes. The new moon was just past, and the afternoon tides were pretty high. I was just planning on making a few casts around the pilings of the bridge. But passing along the marsh I noticed a tail waving in the grass, about 200 feet out. I waded to the mucky edge and longingly watched the fish move across the flat. I cursed the sandals I was wearing for I knew from experience how worthless they would be in the sucking mud. In desperation I kicked them off and headed out barefoot. (I got a nasty cut for this foolishness, something else I should have expected from past experience.) I worked my way to within 40 feet of my last tail sighting. I stood there for 10 minutes without a sign. Then a splash 80 feet away along the edge of the feeder channel, a wide tail up in the air. I hobbled a little closer without spooking the fish and landed a shrimp pattern pretty close. On the first gentle strip, the fly hung on a dead spartina stalk. I tugged it slowly and moved the entire tussock, causing the fish to bolt away. Dispirited, I struggled back to the road, sinking thigh-deep into the mud in several places. I walked across the road and looked at the windward flat. A tail, two tails. I went back to camp, put on my hiking shoes, and was wading out there 10 minutes later. Alas, the tide was ebbing away and I saw one distant departing fish before the grass was drying out. The next day I made it too late and missed the tide, which was lower and didn’t have the big east wind pushing it anyway.
 bridge  creek The first night, late at night, I heard a big fish crash in the creek and think it was probably a tarpon. I went out the next night, after drinks, and made a few casts with an EP baitfish to no avail. And that was that, from a fishing standpoint.
I love wild southeastern barrier islands. They are the ends of the earth, or the beginning. The first land you might see after heading west out of Senegal, anyway. I don’t get enough time on them.
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