The solution to any problem – work, love, money, whatever, is to go fishing, and the worse the problem, the longer the trip should be.”
As many of you are aware, John Gierach recently passed away. I have enjoyed many of his books and writings and will miss his quarterly article in the TROUT magazine published by TU National. Rest in peace John.
Our trout season is now closed and the browns and brookies are now or soon will be on their spawning redds. In the next few months you will hopefully have plenty of time to wash and hang-up your waders, clean your wading boots, clean your lines and inspect them for any damage, oil your reels, and maybe check those rows in your fly boxes for empty spaces that you can fill during the up-coming tying season.
This is an exiting time for our chapter. The Annual Holiday and Chapter Awards Banquet will be held on Tuesday December 3rd, at Juniors Restaurant and Tap House in River Falls. Menu items have been selected by our Banquet Committee and details regarding event time and ticket purchases will show up in your email in-box via Mail Chimp.
We will have live entertainment as well. Chris Silver, an outstanding local musician, will be playing and singing during the buffet dinner. As roots music renaissance performer and multi-instrumentalist, Chris Silver has made a name for himself as a songwriter and is known throughout the U.S. for his virtuosity on guitar, mandolin, and fiddle. His music is soulful and innovative and takes the listener to a musical space where Americiana roots music is fused with jazz, blues, folk and country with the sensibility of a contemporary singer/songwriter. So mark your calendars and be looking for further details and ticket purchasing options.
Fund-raising efforts are in full swing with the Hap Lutter Memorial Fund. In late January/early February, we will be conducting an on-line auction coupled with a 4 x 2 chance offering featuring a Norling 5wt bamboo rod and an original painting by Josh Cunningham.
The DNR sprayed and cleared the willows on the South Fork of the Kinni. Randy and some volunteers also helped with the cutting down of some large willows. The rock from Haas Trucking that was selected in September for the bank restoration and installation of ERO structures will be delivered and stored on site.
Randy has already started his volunteer brush and tree clearing season and is gearing up for more projects as the winter progresses. Please watch your email in-box for his announcements and join Randy for some good quality outdoor work and fun. If you stick around at one of his outings, he may even offer you a couple of hot dogs and a few cookies to boot after all your hard work.
Well, here we are. Our summer season is nearing its end. I’m not quite sure how to describe this past summer though. Looking back it seems to me that June was pretty blustery but throughout summer’s course we had adequate rains and warm temperatures that kept our streams at base flow or above, and our corn and bean fields green and thriving. I suppose though it might have been better had the rains been more frequent rather than coming in batches that flooded our streams and put fly fishing on hold for more than a few days each time.Overall though I’d have to say I am willing to give the summer a thumbs up.
Chapter activities started with a very successful STREAM GIRLS event held at the Ellsworth Rod & Gun Club. Thirteen girls participated and enjoyed activities that included fly-casting and tying, collecting and identifying macro-invertebrates, calculating stream velocities, and an hour of fishing (yes there was some catching) to wrap up a truly wonderful day. Thanks to Linda Radimecky and Michele Bevis for putting together this great program and thanks also to Kiap-TU-Wish chapter members and friends who helped out with the activities.
Two major chapter events were held in June. Our Summer Solstice gathering was not highly attended due to the torrential rains that ruined a chance to fish. Those who did attend, however, had a very nice time talking fishing and eating grilled hot dogs, potato and pasta salads and deserts. Some members participated in fly casting bamboo rods that are owned by a few Kiap-Tu-Wish members and friends. Many thanks to Greg Olson our ex-officio president for arranging for all the food and activities.
The Kiap-TU-Wish June Fly-Fishing Clinic, held in cooperation with the Parks and Recreation Department of the City of river Falls, continued to be a great success. Participants were given instruction in fly-casting, stream-side and on-water skills, and were treated to a great lunch. Many of the participants were successful at landing a few trout as well. Matt Janquart spearheaded the program for the first time and did a great job!
More recently, the chapter’s Phil’s Full Moon Fever Event was held on August 19th at Phil Kashian’s Milkhouse Cottage and Gardens on the Rush River. Close to 60 chapter members and friends attended. Once again Greg Olson took care of the Food and grilling and the hot dogs were accompanied by pasta salads, watermelon, grilled corn, chips, baked beans and beverages of choice. Many members fished afterwards. Thank you to Phil Kashian and Kay Peterson for being such wonderful hosts.
Our new season begins on September 5th (note the day of the week change from Tuesday to Thursday for this event) with our annual Kiap-TU-Wish Open House and Gear Swap to be held at the Rush River Brewery. If you have a piece of gear that is gathering dust, put a price on it and bring it with you. If it sells the money is yours to keep. We will also be signing up new members at a reduced price of $17.50.
We have a great season of meetings lined up and I am looking forward to meeting our new members and seeing all your familiar faces during the course of the year.
Suzanne
Mason Dado,WDNR Summer Intern
My summer’s internship has been a great experience for gaining knowledge and understanding of how fisheries work is done in the Department of Natural Resources. It has shown me different lanes and applications needed to succeed at the job.
Being well versed in different variations of net mending, motor expertise, data entry, all display well versed knowledge of the fisheries even though I have a long way to go in some of these tall tasks. As for the fish side of things, being able to catch and collect data on fish being as small as 2 inches and as big as 60 inches can be very useful as well as fascinating.
For the last couple of weeks we have been doing our trout surveys to better understand how the population is doing or how habitat has changed over time. We were using a barge shocker to collect most of the data. This gives my boss Kasey Yallaly an understanding on what could be done differently to improve or help make differences in a certain area.
We also did some sturgeon work when I first started out. We took measurements and tagged these fish to see if any recapture would occur to check growth rates along with movement patterns. Being able to handle some of these prehistoric beasts was pretty awesome and one of my favorite parts. Doing this studies also gives an estimate of population to see if anglers would even be able to target them. Overall, this has been a great experience for me to get a better understanding of how things work in a real time outdoor environment.
I want to thank everyone who contributed and made this opportunity a reality along with Kasey Yallaly and her two LTEs Dustin Schurrer and Sam Jacobson. All three of them work extremely hard and had the patience to help me understand how fisheries work and helped answer my questions. I feel some people in the fish community need more credit especially in themselves because without them improvement would not be made to help sustain some of these fisheries for more anglers of many generations!
Editors Note: Mason’s internship was sponsored by, Star Prairie Fish & Game,
and the Kiap-TU-Wish and Clearwater Chapters of Trout Unlimited.
Skip’s Loose Threads By Skip James
My favorite trout fishing partner for many years was Merrimon Hipps, known to all as Mike. Like me, he was a professional musician, a trumpet player in the Minnesota Orchestra. We traveled out West many times together, and took our share of fish from local waters. Now retired, he lives with his wife in Eden Prairie.
One evening, after dinner in Preston, MN and a fine day fishing the South Branch of the Root River, we were heading home in the car, windows open, listening to the Twins game on the radio. The reception wasn’t particularly good, and Mike tuned to Minnesota Public Radio instead. In those days, the mid 80’s, there was only one station, not three as there are today. A familiar piece of music was playing, Franz Schubert’s “Trout Quintet.” Based upon a song that Schubert wrote a year before, it tells the story of a trout caught by a fisherman. The music is full of slippery chromatic phrases in the piano accompaniment. Atypically, the quintet is set for piano, violin, viola, cello, and double bass. The composer wrote it in 1819 when he was twenty-two, but it wasn’t published until after his death. The radio performance that evening was excellent, and our conversation ceased as we listened.
After the final movement, we discussed the possibility that those of us who enjoyed sophisticated classical music might also enjoy the art of fly fishing, and that fly fishers might find that a refined taste in music might develop in those who knew how to handle a flyrod.
The Phipps Center for the Arts was still in its old building, but just out the door and across the street was the Hudson park and bandshell. I asked four string players from the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra to join me in performing the “Trout Quintet” on the main stage, and Mike got volunteers from both Kiap-TU-Wish and Twin Cities Chapters of TU to tie flies in the lobby and give casting lessons on the lawn afterwards.
We set up our concert and demonstrations on a sunny Sunday afternoon in June, 1985. At 1pm, we played the quintet, and at 4pm there were still people fly casting on the lawn and watching talented fly tiers work. Neither one of us took attendance and the concert was free. Perhaps a few of you who read this might remember the event.
From the Archives: Editors Note: While contemplating this season’s content for RipRap, I’ve decided to resurrect a selection of articles from past issues of our newsletter. I spent some time sifting through the archived issues of RipRap on our website and was impressed by how much wonderful prose is hidden in the confines of Kiap-TU-Wish cyber space. So starting with this September issue, I plan to publish at least one article from a past issue and hope that when you read the article you will say, “Oh Yeah, I remember that one.”
To start the season, what better way than to read about Tricos. There should still be a few around when this article posts. Maria Manion, one of RipRaps former editors, wrote an article for the January 2012 RipRap titled “A Flurry of Tricos.” In the article Maria describes how she soldiered through a series of frustrations on her “First Trico Morning” but was able to seize the day and make the outing an unforgettable experience.
A Flurry of Tricos: By Maria Manion
We had our first real snow of the season this past weekend. It came slowly, first as drizzle, then as soft rain, then soft rain and slush, then slush, and then, finally, snowflakes. I stood in it and—despite the upcoming Christmas holiday and the excitement for a season of wood fires, boots dripping with melting snow near the front door, and the metallic scrape of my neighbor’s shovel—found myself thinking of a late July morning where the Midwestern heat came rolling over the farm fields to where I stood in a trout stream amidst a flurry of tricos.
I never expected to be so fond of the trico spinner fall (the tiniest of mayflies, spent from mating and falling to the river’s surface in the wee morning hours), or to spend so much time fishing it. I’d prefer to sleep, particularly after a week of rising early for work, linger over a cup of coffee and hard-boiled egg, and check the backyard tomatoes to see whether critters have taken a bite. But the expectations of my Labrador and the memory of previous mornings when the river seemed to boil with fish, kicks me out of bed.
On this first morning of my trico season, I got up later than intended, fed the dog, made a cup of instant coffee, and grabbed a few slices of cheese for the drive to the stream. Once there, I looked to the sky above the stream for a cloud of swarming tricos, hurried into my waders, dug my vest out of the duffle, grabbed my fly rod, locked the truck, unlocked the truck to get my hat, locked the truck again, swung on my vest, waded the river at the tractor crossing and hoofed it down the path to where I had a good day’s fishing the year before. In our haste— me and my lab—we missed the point of easy access to the river, instead whacking our way through hemlock and stinging nettle to get to the river’s edge. We popped out just where I had hoped, but the trip getting there wasn’t pleasant.
While my lab splashed in the water near the bank, looking for submerged sticks to chew, I judged the state of affairs while quickly assembling my rod. Upstream near the car, a thick cloud of tricos hung above the stream. Here, downstream, they were filming the water’s surface and trout were starting to rise at alarming frequencies. Thrilled, rod assembled, I looked down to sort out my leader, forgetting that I had removed the whole lot a week before, including the loop at the end of my fly line. Panicked, I searched my vest for a new tapered leader, snipped off the corresponding loop, struggled to tie leader to line with a blood knot—a knot I’ve tied many times before with great success—screwed up, watched rises, started again, screwed up, tried deep breathing, and resorted to tying the biggest ball of knot I’d ever seen, a knot far too big and unshapely to get through any of the guides on my rod, but a knot sufficiently strong to get me fishing. So, somewhat satisfied, I turned attention to my vest, to the flies, and to my box of trico spinners. Which I left in the truck. In the truck. I tied on an olive CDC emerger and started fishing.
Happily I can report that I caught fish, enough fish. First I cast the fly so that it drifted downstream, submerged in the film. I picked up trout at nearly every point on the drift. Next I cast the fly upstream, dry, where it managed a perky attitude in the ripples. I caught a few trout there too.
At this point my lab had explored every stick within a decent radius and was getting antsy to move. We waded upstream, along the riffles edge, until I spotted sporadic rises in the flat water above the riffles head. My darling lab, now heeling at my right, watched with me.
And as we watched, we slowly found ourselves enveloped by a cloud of tricos. The sunlight, caught in their crystalline wings, transformed the spinners into a million minute snowflakes which were falling all around us. I put out my hand as I would in a winter flurry and they landed tenderly, exquisitely. I almost expected them to melt as a cold flake on a warm hand. Standing there, even the water’s rushing seemed silent. I turned to my darling Labrador upon whose black coat snow-white tricos had reposed. “Wow. Wow. What about this, huh?”
I’ve told that story a few times since it happened and I never get the beauty of that moment adequately painted. So if you’re able, stand in the midst of a soft snowfall, hand outstretched. It was like that.
The Unintentional Collector
by Bob White
A good story cannot be devised; it has to be distilled.
– Raymond Chandler
Bamboo fly rods, like most of the important things in my life, seem to happen to me when I least expect them.
“Dave’s here,” Lisa said as she looked up from her desk. “He has an arm load of rod tubes; you might be going fishing this afternoon.”
I like friends who bring their dogs when they come to visit, and Dave’s golden retriever was already tearing it up with our bird dogs. Dave stood in the backyard, clutching several rod tubes in his hands and shaking his head while he watched the shenanigans. I called him from the open window, and he answered, “I wish that I had that much energy,” he said. And then, “I’ve got something to show you.”
Lisa poured coffee while Dave pulled cloth rod sheaths from their tubes and handed one of them to me. The smell of just-set spar varnish permeated the room. “What d’ya think?”
“It’s beautiful,” I said, pulling the bamboo butt section out and admiring the perfect finish. “You made this?”
“Let’s go cast them,” he suggested, as he patted the bulge in his jacket pocket that could only be a fly reel.
I’d cast a few cane rods over the years, but I’d always admired them from a distance; I’d never owned a bamboo rod, and hadn’t ever fished with one. While I was raised to appreciate all things hand-made, and have a high regard for their beauty and the artistry it takes to build them, it just didn’t seem practical for me to carry an heirloom rod when guiding.
A guide’s rod is often used as a back-up should the client’s break. If the client chose to fish dry flies, I’d rig mine with a nymph so we could try different flies and techniques by just switching rods. In addition, while the fisherman probed the water with my rod, I had a few extra minutes to quietly unravel the inevitable wind knots in his leader, tie on fresh tippet, attach a different fly, and sharpen the hook.
Breaking any rod, even with an industry discount, is heartbreaking. The loss of a bamboo rod that’s been built by a friend would almost be enough to make me give up guiding and buy a jet ski.
“This is nice,” I said as my loop tailed and collapsed upon itself.
“You don’t throw bamboo very often,” Dave said kindly (it was more of a statement than a question). “They’re much softer and slower than what you’re used to. Don’t try to over-power it, there… that’s it, much better.”
“Hey, this is really nice,” I said, as a long, tight, buttery loop straightened out and fell to the lawn.
“Do you want one?” He asked.
“How much would it cost us?” I inquired with a gulp. We live close to the edge, but even though we could never afford it, I knew that Lisa would agree to whatever the price because she loves us both. I married wisely… and that good fortune comes with a lot of responsibility.
“How about if you paint me a watercolor in exchange for a rod?” He asked. Dave already knew my answer, and continued. “Let’s try a couple of different tapers.” A few months later Dave stopped by with my rod, and I started a collection.
The watercolor that illustrates this essay is titled “Bamboo”, and it shows Dave’s workbench and the makings of my first bamboo rod.
A trade is good when both parties feel they’ve come out ahead. This is particularly true with artists, when each produces something the other admires but is unable to make.
Sometimes what one has to offer a friend in trade is less than obvious.
“Are you going to fish with Jay today?” Lisa asked, as she turned from her work and looked toward the driveway.
“Maybe,” I said. I was working desperately on an illustration as I watched Jay turn his setter, Libby, loose to play with our Mac and Luke. Once the dogs were introduced, he pulled a short, green rod tube out of his car, and walked slowly, almost thoughtfully, toward the studio.
His face was blank when he walked into the room and silently handed me the rod tube. “What have you been up to?” I asked in an effort to discern how deeply in debt we were about to go.
There was no reply, as I opened the rod tube in a trance. The now familiar aroma of fresh spar varnish wafted throughout the studio. “It’s my second one,” he said. “What d’ya think?”
“It’s beautiful,” I replied. “But, I’m hardly the one to ask. How come you didn’t put your name on it?”
“It’s only my second rod,” he replied. “They’ll get better.”
Now that I owned a bamboo rod, I fancied myself a collector, and that implied owning more than one. “I’d love to have one of your rods,” I said. “How much are they?”
“Not a thing,”Jay answered. “This is for you… but you have to go with me and fish it today.”
The first two bamboo rods I came by were both made for me by close friends. The next two came to me from an old friend who didn’t make them, but surely knows how to use them.
I went to Alaska in the spring of 1984 to become a fishing guide. It was during that first summer I met Jack Crossfield. Like the heroes of my youth, Jack was bigger than life; well over six feet tall, with hands the size of small hams. Jack’s physical presence was eclipsed only by his experiences. He’d hunted and fished all over the world. He shot game in Africa, fished from Alaska to Argentina, and was a champion at the Golden Gate Casting Club back in the 50’s and 60’s. He knew double guns, bamboo rods, bird dogs, and whiskey. He had a gravelly voice that was perfect to tell a story, particularly if there was an ironic twist to its end. His eyes were bright and quick. His nature was generous. He didn’t bullshit because he didn’t have to, and if you were lucky enough to earn his respect and friendship, you could take it to the bank. He was my best man when Lisa and I married at the lodge one summer.
Jack was what I think of as a “man’s man”; Teddy Roosevelt, Jack London, and Zane Grey all rolled into one. I can honestly say that our time on the water together is one of the things I missed most about my hiatus from Alaska.
After a couple of seasons of not fishing with Jack, I came to the realization that we might not see each other again. Life’s funny that way; the routines that we take for granted suddenly change and leave us with just our memories. With that realization it occurred to me just how much I’d like to have a set of Jack’s rods, not so much to fish, as to hold. It didn’t matter to me if they were graphite or fiberglass. As it turned out, when I asked Jack if he might consider such an arrangement, he agreed, and sent me a set of his bamboo rods; two classic, fluted, Winston rods, made for him by Doug Merrick.
Jack’s been gone for over two decades and while I’ve fished with these rods on the little Mill Stream behind the studio, and have caught some nice little brookies with them, I’d never really fished them seriously.
While I banged around the studio, gathering gear for a recent fishing trip with friends to the Minnesota Driftless, Lisa looked up from her desk and asked what rods I planned to take, and then before I could answer, she suggested I take Jack’s rods. “He’d like that,” she said
The rods got nods of approval from my buddies, bamboo aficionados all, and they cast like a dream. Fish were caught, but to be honest it’s not the fish that I remember… it’s my friend, Jack.
Editor’s Note:This article has been re-posted with permission from Bob White and can also be found on his website bobwhitestudio.com.
Most of the cane rods in my collection have been bartered for, some were gifted, and others found. One was a combination of all three.
Lisa and I were in South Carolina to hunt and visit with friends when I came upon what many bamboo rod collectors could only dream about. We’d been invited to hunt turkeys on the property of mutual friends, and long before dawn joined them at their historic plantation house.
Early breakfast consisted of strong coffee and biscuits sweetened with molasses and talk of turkeys. Billy would guide me, and Lanny would guide Lisa. Carrington and Mary would stay behind and use the morning to prepare an enormous hunter’s breakfast for our triumphant return. We felt fortunate as we left and went our separate ways into the cold and damp false-dawn.
During those grey morning hours, we heard a lot birds call, both hens and toms. We saw a few, and maneuvered into position for shots that never materialized; it was a typical turkey hunt. Most importantly we didn’t hear the ladies shoot, which meant that breakfast would be amicable.
The after-hunt breakfast was enough to drop any cardiologist’s jaw and in the warmth near the fireplace I had a minor epiphany. While I gently blew over my coffee, I asked our host, “Carrington, have you ever made whiskey?”
Carrington hesitated for just an instant, not really long enough to incriminate himself, but certainly long enough to judge a man. Mary looked around the room nervously and went to the cupboard for more mayhaw jelly even thought the dish next to the biscuit platter was still half full.
Though we’d known each other only a short time, it seemed to me that he’d judged me to be a trustworthy friend, and most importantly; not an ATF agent. He looked around the room conspiratorially, and then asked with a twinkle in his eyes, “Would you like to see my still?”
Mid-morning found us in the old log barn. Carrington was up in the loft, and I was next in line, handing pots and coils of tubing down to Billy, who passed them off to Lisa and Lanny, who deposited them on the lawn where Mary instructed us all in the proper construction of a still.
As the last part was handed to me, a small aluminum tube rattled across the rafters, and I immediately recognized it for what it was; a rod tube. “What’s that, Carrington?” I asked.
“Oh, that old thing, it’s my father’s old fly pole.”
“Mind if I take a look?”
“Of course not,” he said. “I haven’t seen the old Payne in years. ‘Forgot that it was even up here.”
I pulled the pale green cloth bag from the dusty tube and read the tag.
E.F. Payne Rod Co., Inc.
Highland Mills, N. Y.
# 43329
7′ – 6″ Feet
3 3/8 Ounces, Parabolic
“Wow.” I said.
“It’s in pretty tough shape,” he replied.
“You might want to have this rod restored,” I suggested. “It might be worth something.”
“Naw, I’ll never get around to it,” he said. “If you like it, you can have it.”
“Wow.” I said again. “I’d love to have it; but only if you’ll let me send you a painting for it. And it’s important that you understand that I’ll have it restored and fish with it.”
“My father would like that,” Carrington said with a wink. “Now let me show you how to set up a whiskey still!”
Once assembled, Carrington eyed the still approvingly, and now that I was in his confidence, let me know that he’d be more than happy to lend it to me… strictly for my private use. “You’ll need a lot of time and fresh, cold water,” he told me while he instructed me in the process of distilling whiskey. “Water was always the tough thing around here… that is until I blew open the spring.”
“Now… that was a day to remember!” Mary chimed in. “Something I’ll never forget.”
“We had this piddly little spring out back,” Carrington continued. “It wasn’t much of anything. Still, some of the old folks ’round here remembered it more. They said that the damned Yankees mucked it up with their horses.
After it’s filled in, a big old cottonwood, we called it the ‘General Sherman’, decided to grow plumb smack in the middle of it,” he said, with a faraway look in his eyes. “I figured that if I blew out the tree… Well, we’d have enough water. So, I went to town for some dynamite.”
“They wouldn’t sell him just half a box,” Mary added. “He packed that tree’s roots full of the stuff. Until there wasn’t half a box of dynamite left.”
“Then, I figured, what in tarnation are we going to do with half a box of that stuff around here anyway? I didn’t want it around the place, so I made room for the rest of it.”
“I ran back to the house,” Mary said.
“And, I hid behind the hill and touched her off.”
“Every window in the house shook, some broke!”
“And I did a somersault that landed me right on my backside… just in time to see the old ‘General’ lifted off the ground and shot into the sky like some kind of Sputnik rocket!”
“People heard it from all ’round.”
“That damned tree came down on the other side of the creek like a cat thrown from a second-story window; roots first. It stuck itself in the mud, and that’s where it still stands, healthy as can be… to this very day!”
As the number of friends who build fine cane rods grows, so does my collection. I still don’t cast them very well, and I rarely fish with them… but that’s really immaterial to me. What’s important is that I see them every day, because they remind me about the most important things in life; my friends, family, and the experiences that we share.
Views From My Side of the Vise: September 2024
By Paul Johnson
Are you a fan of social media? Do you actively participate or do you just attempt to keep
somewhat current with everything going on? There are many times that I have contemplated
unplugging all of it. However, like it or not, social media is not going away. As a result, I am a
selective consumer of social media and am active on Facebook, Instagram and YouTube. (You
really should follow me on all of these platforms)!
Of course, a lot of the content on social media is beyond worthless. Every now and again,
however, you can find something that is really, really good. Several years ago I came across a
fly pattern called the Neversink Trude that was tied and posted by Son Tao. It was one of those
flies that seemed to talk to me.
Since that time, I have forgotten what that fly even looked like because I started to tie it my way.
I did a Google search on the fly and found just a few references, most notable (to me at least)
being my own tying video on YouTube. The fly came from the Neversink River in New York. It
also never sinks, so the name works both ways. Just another example of what you can find on
the internet with a little curiosity and a search engine.
I fish this fly quite a bit from the middle of summer throughout the fall. I am not sure if the fish
take it for a hopper or a beetle or maybe just something that looks like it would be good to eat. I
am a big fan of the dark abdomen that is tied with a peacock-colored dubbing. Another
differentiating factor is the smaller size compared to other popular terrestrial patterns. I tie this
on a size 12 hook. The fly does ride low in the water compared to other multi-layer foam
hoppers. Yet, as indicated by its name, it is easily able to float a weighted nymph if you want to
use a dropper.
Hook: Size 12 hopper hook
Thread: 8/0 dark brown
Shuck / Tail: Amber Z Yarn from Montana Fly Company
Abdomen: Superbright Dubbing in Peacock / Peacock Herl
Back: 2 mm tan foam cut to ¼”
Under wing: Deer Hair
Over wing: White poly hair (I use Congo Hair from Fly Tyers Dungeon)
Legs: Barred Olive Sili Legs
If you like to fish hoppers, tie some of these up and give them a try.
As always, if you have any questions, please let me know.
Paul Johnson
Waconia, Minnesota
Paulwaconia@gmail.com
Upcoming Chapter Events
September 5th, season kick-off chapter meeting and open house and gear swap, starting at 6:pm at the Rush River brewery.
September 7th, Pheasants Forever Youth Field Day. The event will be held from 8:00 am to 3:00 pm the the Game Unlimited Hunting Club, 871 County Rd E, Hudson, WI 54016. Randy Arnold is looking for volunteers to help with our chapters contribution to the event. Contact randyarnold@kiptuwish.org. to volunteer.
October 1st, chapter meeting. 6:00 pm at Junior’s Restaurant and Tap House, 414 South main Street, River Falls Wisconsin 54022. Carl Nelson will be presenting findings on recent Macroinvertibrate sampling on the Rush River.
November Chapter meeting. November’s Chapter meeting at Junior’s Restaurant and Tap House, 414 South Main Street, River Falls, Wisconsin, 54022. This meeting will be moved from Tuesday November 5th to Monday November 4th due to November 5th being election day. Loren Haas will give a presentation on ERO structures and their effect on stream flows.
Christmas and Awards Banquet. December 3rd, Juniors Restaurant and Tap House. Watch for more details as we get nearer the date.
Well, here we are. Our summer season is nearing its end. I’m not quite sure how to describe this past summer though. Looking back it seems to me that June was pretty blustery but throughout summer’s course we had adequate rains and warm temperatures that kept our streams at base flow or above, and our corn and bean fields green and thriving. I suppose though it might have been better had the rains been more frequent rather than coming in batches that flooded our streams and put fly fishing on hold for more than a few days each time.Overall though I’d have to say I am willing to give the summer a thumbs up.
Chapter activities started with a very successful STREAM GIRLS event held at the Ellsworth Rod & Gun Club. Thirteen girls participated and enjoyed activities that included fly-casting and tying, collecting and identifying macro-invertebrates, calculating stream velocities, and an hour of fishing (yes there was some catching) to wrap up a truly wonderful day. Thanks to Linda Radimecky and Michele Bevis for putting together this great program and thanks also to Kiap-TU-Wish chapter members and friends who helped out with the activities.
Two major chapter events were held in June. Our Summer Solstice gathering was not highly attended due to the torrential rains that ruined a chance to fish. Those who did attend, however, had a very nice time talking fishing and eating grilled hot dogs, potato and pasta salads and deserts. Some members participated in fly casting bamboo rods that are owned by a few Kiap-Tu-Wish members and friends. Many thanks to Greg Olson our ex-officio president for arranging for all the food and activities.
The Kiap-TU-Wish June Fly-Fishing Clinic, held in cooperation with the Parks and Recreation Department of the City of river Falls, continued to be a great success. Participants were given instruction in fly-casting, stream-side and on-water skills, and were treated to a great lunch. Many of the participants were successful at landing a few trout as well. Matt Janquart spearheaded the program for the first time and did a great job!
More recently, the chapter’s Phil’s Full Moon Fever Event was held on August 19th at Phil Kashian’s Milkhouse Cottage and Gardens on the Rush River. Close to 60 chapter members and friends attended. Once again Greg Olson took care of the Food and grilling and the hot dogs were accompanied by pasta salads, watermelon, grilled corn, chips, baked beans and beverages of choice. Many members fished afterwards. Thank you to Phil Kashian and Kay Peterson for being such wonderful hosts.
Our new season begins on September 5th (note the day of the week change from Tuesday to Thursday for this event) with our annual Kiap-TU-Wish Open House and Gear Swap to be held at the Rush River Brewery. If you have a piece of gear that is gathering dust, put a price on it and bring it with you. If it sells the money is yours to keep. We will also be signing up new members at a reduced price of $17.50.
We have a great season of meetings lined up and I am looking forward to meeting our new members and seeing all your familiar faces during the course of the year.
My summer’s internship has been a great experience for gaining knowledge and understanding of how fisheries work is done in the Department of Natural Resources. It has shown me different lanes and applications needed to succeed at the job.
Being well versed in different variations of net mending, motor expertise, data entry, all display well versed knowledge of the fisheries even though I have a long way to go in some of these tall tasks. As for the fish side of things, being able to catch and collect data on fish being as small as 2 inches and as big as 60 inches can be very useful as well as fascinating.
For the last couple of weeks we have been doing our trout surveys to better understand how the population is doing or how habitat has changed over time. We were using a barge shocker to collect most of the data. This gives my boss Kasey Yallaly an understanding on what could be done differently to improve or help make differences in a certain area.
We also did some sturgeon work when I first started out. We took measurements and tagged these fish to see if any recapture would occur to check growth rates along with movement patterns. Being able to handle some of these prehistoric beasts was pretty awesome and one of my favorite parts. Doing this studies also gives an estimate of population to see if anglers would even be able to target them. Overall, this has been a great experience for me to get a better understanding of how things work in a real time outdoor environment.
I want to thank everyone who contributed and made this opportunity a reality along with Kasey Yallaly and her two LTEs Dustin Schurrer and Sam Jacobson. All three of them work extremely hard and had the patience to help me understand how fisheries work and helped answer my questions. I feel some people in the fish community need more credit especially in themselves because without them improvement would not be made to help sustain some of these fisheries for more anglers of many generations!
Editors Note: Mason’s internship was sponsored by, Star Prairie Fish & Game,
and the Kiap-TU-Wish and Clearwater Chapters of Trout Unlimited.
A good story cannot be devised; it has to be distilled.
– Raymond Chandler
Bamboo fly rods, like most of the important things in my life, seem to happen to me when I least expect them.
“Dave’s here,” Lisa said as she looked up from her desk. “He has an arm load of rod tubes; you might be going fishing this afternoon.”
I like friends who bring their dogs when they come to visit, and Dave’s golden retriever was already tearing it up with our bird dogs. Dave stood in the backyard, clutching several rod tubes in his hands and shaking his head while he watched the shenanigans. I called him from the open window, and he answered, “I wish that I had that much energy,” he said. And then, “I’ve got something to show you.”
Lisa poured coffee while Dave pulled cloth rod sheaths from their tubes and handed one of them to me. The smell of just-set spar varnish permeated the room. “What d’ya think?”
“It’s beautiful,” I said, pulling the bamboo butt section out and admiring the perfect finish. “You made this?”
“Let’s go cast them,” he suggested, as he patted the bulge in his jacket pocket that could only be a fly reel.
I’d cast a few cane rods over the years, but I’d always admired them from a distance; I’d never owned a bamboo rod, and hadn’t ever fished with one. While I was raised to appreciate all things hand-made, and have a high regard for their beauty and the artistry it takes to build them, it just didn’t seem practical for me to carry an heirloom rod when guiding.
A guide’s rod is often used as a back-up should the client’s break. If the client chose to fish dry flies, I’d rig mine with a nymph so we could try different flies and techniques by just switching rods. In addition, while the fisherman probed the water with my rod, I had a few extra minutes to quietly unravel the inevitable wind knots in his leader, tie on fresh tippet, attach a different fly, and sharpen the hook.
Breaking any rod, even with an industry discount, is heartbreaking. The loss of a bamboo rod that’s been built by a friend would almost be enough to make me give up guiding and buy a jet ski.
“This is nice,” I said as my loop tailed and collapsed upon itself.
“You don’t throw bamboo very often,” Dave said kindly (it was more of a statement than a question). “They’re much softer and slower than what you’re used to. Don’t try to over-power it, there… that’s it, much better.”
“Hey, this is really nice,” I said, as a long, tight, buttery loop straightened out and fell to the lawn.
“Do you want one?” He asked.
“How much would it cost us?” I inquired with a gulp. We live close to the edge, but even though we could never afford it, I knew that Lisa would agree to whatever the price because she loves us both. I married wisely… and that good fortune comes with a lot of responsibility.
“How about if you paint me a watercolor in exchange for a rod?” He asked. Dave already knew my answer, and continued. “Let’s try a couple of different tapers.” A few months later Dave stopped by with my rod, and I started a collection.
The watercolor that illustrates this essay is titled “Bamboo”, and it shows Dave’s workbench and the makings of my first bamboo rod.
A trade is good when both parties feel they’ve come out ahead. This is particularly true with artists, when each produces something the other admires but is unable to make.
Sometimes what one has to offer a friend in trade is less than obvious.
“Are you going to fish with Jay today?” Lisa asked, as she turned from her work and looked toward the driveway.
“Maybe,” I said. I was working desperately on an illustration as I watched Jay turn his setter, Libby, loose to play with our Mac and Luke. Once the dogs were introduced, he pulled a short, green rod tube out of his car, and walked slowly, almost thoughtfully, toward the studio.
His face was blank when he walked into the room and silently handed me the rod tube. “What have you been up to?” I asked in an effort to discern how deeply in debt we were about to go.
There was no reply, as I opened the rod tube in a trance. The now familiar aroma of fresh spar varnish wafted throughout the studio. “It’s my second one,” he said. “What d’ya think?”
“It’s beautiful,” I replied. “But, I’m hardly the one to ask. How come you didn’t put your name on it?”
“It’s only my second rod,” he replied. “They’ll get better.”
Now that I owned a bamboo rod, I fancied myself a collector, and that implied owning more than one. “I’d love to have one of your rods,” I said. “How much are they?”
“Not a thing,”Jay answered. “This is for you… but you have to go with me and fish it today.”
The first two bamboo rods I came by were both made for me by close friends. The next two came to me from an old friend who didn’t make them, but surely knows how to use them.
I went to Alaska in the spring of 1984 to become a fishing guide. It was during that first summer I met Jack Crossfield. Like the heroes of my youth, Jack was bigger than life; well over six feet tall, with hands the size of small hams. Jack’s physical presence was eclipsed only by his experiences. He’d hunted and fished all over the world. He shot game in Africa, fished from Alaska to Argentina, and was a champion at the Golden Gate Casting Club back in the 50’s and 60’s. He knew double guns, bamboo rods, bird dogs, and whiskey. He had a gravelly voice that was perfect to tell a story, particularly if there was an ironic twist to its end. His eyes were bright and quick. His nature was generous. He didn’t bullshit because he didn’t have to, and if you were lucky enough to earn his respect and friendship, you could take it to the bank. He was my best man when Lisa and I married at the lodge one summer.
Jack was what I think of as a “man’s man”; Teddy Roosevelt, Jack London, and Zane Grey all rolled into one. I can honestly say that our time on the water together is one of the things I missed most about my hiatus from Alaska.
After a couple of seasons of not fishing with Jack, I came to the realization that we might not see each other again. Life’s funny that way; the routines that we take for granted suddenly change and leave us with just our memories. With that realization it occurred to me just how much I’d like to have a set of Jack’s rods, not so much to fish, as to hold. It didn’t matter to me if they were graphite or fiberglass. As it turned out, when I asked Jack if he might consider such an arrangement, he agreed, and sent me a set of his bamboo rods; two classic, fluted, Winston rods, made for him by Doug Merrick.
Jack’s been gone for over two decades and while I’ve fished with these rods on the little Mill Stream behind the studio, and have caught some nice little brookies with them, I’d never really fished them seriously.
While I banged around the studio, gathering gear for a recent fishing trip with friends to the Minnesota Driftless, Lisa looked up from her desk and asked what rods I planned to take, and then before I could answer, she suggested I take Jack’s rods. “He’d like that,” she said
The rods got nods of approval from my buddies, bamboo aficionados all, and they cast like a dream. Fish were caught, but to be honest it’s not the fish that I remember… it’s my friend, Jack.
Editor’s Note:This article has been re-posted with permission from Bob White and can also be found on his website bobwhitestudio.com.
Most of the cane rods in my collection have been bartered for, some were gifted, and others found. One was a combination of all three.
Lisa and I were in South Carolina to hunt and visit with friends when I came upon what many bamboo rod collectors could only dream about. We’d been invited to hunt turkeys on the property of mutual friends, and long before dawn joined them at their historic plantation house.
Early breakfast consisted of strong coffee and biscuits sweetened with molasses and talk of turkeys. Billy would guide me, and Lanny would guide Lisa. Carrington and Mary would stay behind and use the morning to prepare an enormous hunter’s breakfast for our triumphant return. We felt fortunate as we left and went our separate ways into the cold and damp false-dawn.
During those grey morning hours, we heard a lot birds call, both hens and toms. We saw a few, and maneuvered into position for shots that never materialized; it was a typical turkey hunt. Most importantly we didn’t hear the ladies shoot, which meant that breakfast would be amicable.
The after-hunt breakfast was enough to drop any cardiologist’s jaw and in the warmth near the fireplace I had a minor epiphany. While I gently blew over my coffee, I asked our host, “Carrington, have you ever made whiskey?”
Carrington hesitated for just an instant, not really long enough to incriminate himself, but certainly long enough to judge a man. Mary looked around the room nervously and went to the cupboard for more mayhaw jelly even thought the dish next to the biscuit platter was still half full.
Though we’d known each other only a short time, it seemed to me that he’d judged me to be a trustworthy friend, and most importantly; not an ATF agent. He looked around the room conspiratorially, and then asked with a twinkle in his eyes, “Would you like to see my still?”
Mid-morning found us in the old log barn. Carrington was up in the loft, and I was next in line, handing pots and coils of tubing down to Billy, who passed them off to Lisa and Lanny, who deposited them on the lawn where Mary instructed us all in the proper construction of a still.
As the last part was handed to me, a small aluminum tube rattled across the rafters, and I immediately recognized it for what it was; a rod tube. “What’s that, Carrington?” I asked.
“Oh, that old thing, it’s my father’s old fly pole.”
“Mind if I take a look?”
“Of course not,” he said. “I haven’t seen the old Payne in years. ‘Forgot that it was even up here.”
I pulled the pale green cloth bag from the dusty tube and read the tag.
E.F. Payne Rod Co., Inc.
Highland Mills, N. Y.
# 43329
7′ – 6″ Feet
3 3/8 Ounces, Parabolic
“Wow.” I said.
“It’s in pretty tough shape,” he replied.
“You might want to have this rod restored,” I suggested. “It might be worth something.”
“Naw, I’ll never get around to it,” he said. “If you like it, you can have it.”
“Wow.” I said again. “I’d love to have it; but only if you’ll let me send you a painting for it. And it’s important that you understand that I’ll have it restored and fish with it.”
“My father would like that,” Carrington said with a wink. “Now let me show you how to set up a whiskey still!”
Once assembled, Carrington eyed the still approvingly, and now that I was in his confidence, let me know that he’d be more than happy to lend it to me… strictly for my private use. “You’ll need a lot of time and fresh, cold water,” he told me while he instructed me in the process of distilling whiskey. “Water was always the tough thing around here… that is until I blew open the spring.”
“Now… that was a day to remember!” Mary chimed in. “Something I’ll never forget.”
“We had this piddly little spring out back,” Carrington continued. “It wasn’t much of anything. Still, some of the old folks ’round here remembered it more. They said that the damned Yankees mucked it up with their horses.
After it’s filled in, a big old cottonwood, we called it the ‘General Sherman’, decided to grow plumb smack in the middle of it,” he said, with a faraway look in his eyes. “I figured that if I blew out the tree… Well, we’d have enough water. So, I went to town for some dynamite.”
“They wouldn’t sell him just half a box,” Mary added. “He packed that tree’s roots full of the stuff. Until there wasn’t half a box of dynamite left.”
“Then, I figured, what in tarnation are we going to do with half a box of that stuff around here anyway? I didn’t want it around the place, so I made room for the rest of it.”
“I ran back to the house,” Mary said.
“And, I hid behind the hill and touched her off.”
“Every window in the house shook, some broke!”
“And I did a somersault that landed me right on my backside… just in time to see the old ‘General’ lifted off the ground and shot into the sky like some kind of Sputnik rocket!”
“People heard it from all ’round.”
“That damned tree came down on the other side of the creek like a cat thrown from a second-story window; roots first. It stuck itself in the mud, and that’s where it still stands, healthy as can be… to this very day!”
As the number of friends who build fine cane rods grows, so does my collection. I still don’t cast them very well, and I rarely fish with them… but that’s really immaterial to me. What’s important is that I see them every day, because they remind me about the most important things in life; my friends, family, and the experiences that we share.
