What I Learned This Week on the River - Episode #1

This post can also be found on my blog at www.jumpcreekflies.com.


Most weeks I get out fishing at least once. And every time I go I learn or in some cases relearn something. So I hope to pass on these little items on a somewhat weekly basis. These tips can be about pretty much anything related to fly fishing and some may help you, some may not. Take them for what they are worth.

So on to this weeks items.  Two things happened that were "light bulb" moments when I was on the water this week. Lets start with an, "oh duh" moment to establish that I can be pretty blockheaded at times.

 #1)For a long time I have fished with fly patterns that use CDC and thus my favorite floatant to carry on the water is of the powdered desiccant variety, such as Frogs Fanny or Doc's Dry dust. These types of floatants do a great job with CDC, but  when you open the bottle and apply it to the fly, the fine powder tends to stay airborne a long time. To avoid inadvertently breathing any of this stuff in, which I can't imagine would be good for you, I have always turned my back to any wind or breeze, and applied the powder to the fly, thinking the breeze would carry the powder away from me. However, I still managed on occasion to somehow breath a little in and it was getting old. Finally I realized the swirling current coming around my back was not always carrying the powder away from me but in fact sucking it right back into me. I was creating an eddy and we fishermen know what eddies do.  Well ***ding*** the light bulb went on yesterday, and I figured out that the best way to make sure the excess powder gets blown away from me is to turn sideways to the wind when applying this product to a fly. It works much better.

Well now I feel silly as that was probably pretty obvious, but my lungs thank me today for finally thinking of this.

#2)Now on to an a actual fly fishing item. Fish can be feeding in a spot, but it's good to ask yourself, where is the food they are eating coming from?  Another pretty obvious tip, but one that is good to remember on the water, so I don't feel bad bringing it up. Here is what I mean by that.

Exhibit A

Refer to the above rudimentary drawing to visualize this scenario.  This week I was fishing  to a lonely riser that was feeding in the very center of a 2 foot by 2 foot area in the midst of three boulders in the stream. My only real approach to the fish was from the rear right of the fish, just because of the way the rocks were situated. Because I had this defined area that the fish was in, between these rocks, I just assumed that any fly that flowed through this area would be on the fish's radar. The way the rocks were situated, and the way I had to approach the lie, the easiest way to fish this was going to be to cast just to the right of Rock 1 in the picture, and let the current push the fly through the middle of the area. It seemed logical that if the fly floated right through the center of the area the fish was rising there was a good chance it would see my fly and hopefully rise to it. After making several fruitless casts I wondered about my fly selection, but as is usually the case, it is often more about our presentation than it is about the fly we are using, so I stuck with it.

Then I noticed that while the fish was in fact feeding in the middle of this area, where my fly had been floating directly over, there were two currents coming together here, and it occurred to me the fish may be positioned to feed on bugs coming from the current pushing off of the left shoulder of Rock 2 (again see above picture). I had cast to the current flowing off the lead rock because it was easier to get my fly drifting from there, to where the fish was feeding, and this current coming from the right was a much tougher cast. The window of where my fly could land without spooking the fish on one side, and getting caught up on Rock 2 on the other side, was much smaller. It was worth a shot though.  I loaded the rod and some how managed to drop the fly in that little window on the first cast, and sure enough the fish was all over it. Lesson learned, or relearned, and I will probably have to be reminded of it again one of these days.

It was a rewarding week on the river and with these reminders I hope we all can keep our lungs clear of "Frogs Fanny" and our flies in the correct feeding lane of hungry fish.

Tight Lines.

The Best NFL Sack Celebration Ever

Willie Young DE for the Detroit Lions obviously spent a little time with a fly rod in his hands during the NFL lockout this summer.  He's got a pretty good casting stroke.

The cameras cut away a little early on his celebration, but if you watch the end of the video above the Punter's head you can see the celebration in it's entirety playing on the stadium jumbo tron.  Willie may become one of my favorite players!

Choreographed Soccer Goal Celebration (and yes, it's fishing related)

Soccer players must have too much down time. 

Orvis GIANT fly sale

As if Orvis needed any help, but I couldn't resist posting this commercial for their GIANT fly sale this month.  It did make me chuckle.

Fishing Bloopers

Well this video has been making the blog circuit recently so many may have already seen it but if you haven't I thought it was worth posting. This one got our whole family laughing.

NERD ALERT! (Part 1)

Here is a short synopsis of my journey in fly fishing. I have always fished but I was usually content throwing spinners (and although some of them where rusty I am not talking about a spent mayfly laying flush in the film, see Exhibit A) for trout and plugs for bass with a spinning rod.

Exhibit A, the Rusty Spinner

I always wanted to try fly fishing but didn't want to fork over the cash necessary for my conversion. Then 5 years ago I got a fly rod for my birthday and it has been downhill ever since.

It started innocently. I was content fishing easy waters where you didn't even have to think about what was hatching. Just tie on a big foam hopper and throw it around the river and catch fish. It was fun and believe me it still is. I enjoy this type of fishing to this day. Then I started using nymphs but had little idea why they worked, I just knew they did. Then it was streamers which seemed a little like a reversion to my spin fishing days. Fishing streamers still is one of my favorite methods though because of some of the epic takes.

Then about a year ago I slipped deeper into the black hole. I bought my first set up for tying my own flies. This led to some exhaustive research on the bugs fish eat and how to imitate them with feathers and fur. It was not until I started tying my own flies that I truly started to get a grasp of what fly fishing was about. There are so many aspects to it, it is not just tying on whatever is in your fly box and hoping that is what fish are eating. Fish will tip their hand more often than not, but it is always a cat and mouse game. You CAN get lucky but you elevate your chances of success by having a little knowledge on your side.

So I guess it is time to face the facts. I must accept what I have become. A fly flinger that turns over rocks and examines strands of algae searching for signs of bug life. It's been a rather rapid journey but 5 fly rods later and with a fly box full of over 200 mayfly emerger patterns alone I can admit it, I am a fly fishing nerd. Mind you not as big a nerd as some, but I will get there someday, you will see.

Funny Video

Hopefully I am not singing this tune on Tomorrow and Tuesday as we float down the South Fork of the Snake River.

Everything Started Out All Wrong

So we went fishing today, and it was one of those days you just wonder when anything is going to go right. As I was getting ready to hit the water and stringing up my rod I kept having massive knot failures. I am usually not too bad at tying the knots I need to get out on the water but this was one of those days where every knot you pull on unravels or breaks off.

After what seemed like an hour of just trying to get everything tied together right I was finally ready to hit the water. I waded in and tried to throw a cast into a likely pocket of water but as my line piled up 10 feet in front of me I knew something was really wrong. I looked at my rod and discovered I had missed an eye when stringing the line along my rod. I had a two fly hopper/dropper type rig on but both flies were small enough I thought I could just pull them with the line back through the eyes and restring them back through. About half way through this poor decision I discovered it was not the easy way to do this, as the hooks would catch on just about everything they possibly could, making the task a little tedious. Finally I got them all back through and I looked down to make sure everything was truly in working order and discovered I had missed another eye in my restringing efforts. Now I was feeling like I was in one of those old fashioned silent comedy movies at this point. The term, running around like a chicken with it's head cut off, seemed to describe how I felt about my actions so far. Nothing I did was working out well. This time I wisely decided to just cut the flies off and restrung the line and retied the flies on. Finally this all went off without a hitch and after what seemed like a couple hours after arriving at the river I was ready to fish. Sheesh!

It turns out Kelly wasn't fairing much better around the bend. When we met up later I found out he had fallen in the drink once and then, while trying to portage around an inconsiderate fisherman that had plopped himself right below Kelly in the run he was fishing, stepped on a stick that punctured his waders with a thumb sized hole. This made for a wet day for him. Luckily the weather was warm this evening so he avoided hypothermia anyway.

Once the comedy of errors was over there were actually some fish caught.

Fish numero uno felt so good after the way this day started.

Same fish different pose

Here are a few pictures of Kelly caught in action fighting a fish.

ZZZZZING..........Still smiling despite the leaky waders!

Finally, the day ended much better than it started with this nice fish taking one of the Caddis Emerger patterns I have spent the last two evenings tying up. It was not the biggest fish I have caught but this guy gave me a run for my money. I would have to say it was the hardest fighting fish I have caught on this river yet. It pulled like a freight train and seemed to never get tired. A great way to end a day on the river.

Tying Zone, Step One is a Go!

As I looked around at everything I would need to get started on fly tying from scratch it became abundantly clear that my new hobby was going to get expensive quick if I wasn't careful. There is just so much you need when you start a new endeavor and have nothing. A good vise is about the only single item that will actually cost you very much itself. The rest is a whole lot of little things that can add up quickly. I decided to start with the big item, the vise, and work around that. After doing research and going into a fly shop and handling several vises I came to the conclusion that I had to have a Regal vise. Now this is probably one of the more expensive vises on the market but after seeing their simplistic and functional design, coupled with the ease of use it made it a no brainer. But buying a new Regal was not going to leave much room in the budget for the abundance of materials I was going to need so I started looking on eBay for deals.

There are people on eBay selling their life's worth collection of fly tying supplies all bundled together for prices that are very reasonable. Now I am no eBay whiz, this is for sure, in fact the only time I have ever used it, I used the "buy it now" feature so there was no bidding or anything involved. Just click and pay and I was done.

Being a rookie I learned a few things along the way, and had some fun. I started searching the site and found a whole set up, with a very good vise and a whole lot of materials, that at the time was very reasonable and well within my budget. There were 4 days left in the bidding for this set and in my exuberance I placed a bid right then and there. I was in the lead...for exactly 12 hours. Soon the item that had started out looking like a good deal was spiraling out of control in a price range that made me feel queasy. I bowed out. Then I found a great deal on a Regal vise. There were no materials with it, just the vise, but I figured I could always get the materials later. The deal on the vise was just too good to pass up. I started bidding early again and had the item won for a price so low I could hardly believe my luck. Then while I was at work the bid ended, and five minutes before it ended some one swooped in and outbid me, by $1. Oh the agony of defeat. Now this was getting my competitive juices flowing. Just the emotion that I am sure eBay thrives off of.

Determined to not be out done again I found another great deal on a whole package. There were enough skinned animals, and full bird capes in it to make any small fur bearing, or feathered animal very nervous, and a very nondescript picture of a vise with very little information on it. Now one thing I know through all this is I have done my homework when it comes to vises, and I was pretty sure by the shape of what I could see in the picture that this was an older Regal vise. Just what I wanted, a Regal vise with enough material to get me going and keep me going for a while. Time was running out on the item and the price was still right. I emailed the seller about getting more pictures of the vise to confirm my suspicions regarding it's maker, but it was the night before the items bidding was to end so I was not sure he would even get my email in time to respond. I withheld the urge to bid and simply noted the ending time when I planned to come back and make my move.

Time was winding down this morning when I jumped into the bidding. With 3 minutes left I placed a bid that put me in the driver seat with $21 to spare. Then I watched as the time ticked off. At two minutes all was well, no more bids. One minute, all's quiet...good. Then my cell phone rings and it is my lovely wife.

"OK I can talk and do this no problem."

Thirty seconds left, "yes, sweetie I will pick up some milk on the way home."

Twenty seconds left, 19...18...UH OH we have another player in the game. I was bid up. By now I was not sure what my wife was saying on the other end of the line, I was focused on the task at hand. I upped my max by 10 dollars with 5 seconds to go in the bidding and by the time the screen refreshed it had confirmed I was a winner! I felt like a champion. I had been beaten down by those veteran eBayer's for the last time. I went back in to check the bid history and sure enough, my bid had beat my wily opponents by 3 seconds...for the exact same amount. If he had entered one more penny or 4 seconds earlier I would be mourning my 3rd defeat in as many days.

The thing with eBay is, after you get that little thrill of victory feeling a screen pops up to burst your bubble.

"Payment options."

"Shoot, I knew there was a catch."

I never did hear back from the seller on what type of vise I just bought but I am not overly concerned as the tying materials alone in this lot where worth more than what I paid, and if my suspicions are true that this is a Regal Vise you will hear another round of celebration once I receive my item. Now I just wish I could buy that milk my wife asked me to pick up on eBay. That was kind of fun.

Another Fishing Report, This Time in the Form of a Poem

We had a good fishing trip to the South Fork of the Snake, but the sun may have fried my brain, along with the lack of sleep that comes from a fly by night trip like this. Obviously something has affected me. I am usually not quite this "good" at poetry:).

All told we boated somewhere around 20 fish and had numerous strikes and fish on that got away. Kelly caught the biggest fish of the day, a big brown pushing 20 inches, and I landed one of the bigger cutthroat, 19-20 inches, I have ever caught out of that river. Interestingly enough it was out of the exact same hole, and I mean exact, that I caught my biggest trout to date, a 25" Brown last September. What was really neat was that I saw him come up and take a fly off the surface just before we got there so I knew he was there when I casted into the hole but wasn't sure he would be coming back up for another bite. It is always fun when you have things come together so nicely.

Another somewhat interesting happening came when we went down one good looking side channels in the river. I was casting into perfect looking pockets and in the span of about 75 yards of river had five consecutive fish smash my big stimulator fly but no hookups. After taking some ribbing from the other yahoo's (my father-in-law and my little brother) in the boat I thought, "you know, I have been known to miss a few fish but that was just weird, I better check my fly to make sure it still has a hook." Really I had no expectation that there would be any such discovery but sure enough when I pulled the line in and looked at the fly there was a perfectly good looking #6 stimi with no hook. It had broken off mid shank. Not sure when that happened but I have a good idea that it could have been the result of one of my hookups with the thick brush along the bank and trying to yank the hook out of there. Anyway, it was another fun trip. Looking forward to the next one already. Pictures are soon to come, for now you are stuck with a goofy poem:

T’was the Night of the Hatch
By Benji

T’was a cool night in July, and all over the river
Not a creature was stirring, not even the beaver
The 5 weight was rigged, and leaned against the wall
Ready to go, for that expected call

Then it was Friday, and work was, well…work
And my casting arm, was developing a jerk
I clicked on a website, with remedies for this
The fishing report, said “’The Canyon’…can’t miss”
“The Salmon Fly’s, are hatching their way”
“Up, up the river, at a mile a day”
“By Monday” they said, “you can be expecting to see”
“Fish piling up, under each bush and each tree”
“Gulping huge bugs, as they slipped from the twigs”
“Fish with good size, some call them pigs”

In a flash it was on, I threw the gear in the truck
Said good bye to the family, as they wished me good luck
Barreling down, the freeway we went
One image in my mind, a rod that is bent
In the shape of a taco, and on the end with the hook
A big German Brown Trout, worth a second look

At Spring Creek we launch, with our heads in the clouds
Expectations are high; the call of the river is loud
The ramp is alive, with boaters bustling about
Here we are putting in, while they are all taking out

As we float under the highway the bridge fades from view
Leaving civilization behind, to see “The Canyon” anew
The sounds of the road die slowly away
Displaced by the sound, of the oars and soft sway
Of the drift boat, as it bobs gently along
In the current, that’s in tune, to nature’s sweet song

Casting in time, to an inaudible beat
To fish that we hope, are ready to eat
I get my first strike, yet it’s gone in a flash
But fish fever has set in, (minus the rash)

Finally a hookup, the brown puts on a show
Splashing and jumping, not ready to go
Into the net, and a quick, painless release
It swims back to its hole, with grace, and with ease
Ah, this is the cure, for the twitch in my arm
The river soft rush, has rung its silent alarm

The rest of the float, is more of the same
Big bushy flies are the pawn in this game
Under each grassy bank, there are trout eager to eat
Where the rivers swift current, and the canyon walls meet

As my mind, and the river sync up in their pace
I am glad for one day, I am out of the race
They say is for rats, but we do it each day
Hustle and bustle, to each make our hay
No matter how short, we make the best of these times
Even when they result, in these ridiculous rhymes

The Swan Lake Swan Dive

Well here we go with another story, telling on myself again. I really wish I could get out and get some pictures as that is what I like to do rather than bore you with semi humorous tales of outdoor adventure, but alas this is what happens when I haven't been out much over the last few weeks.

Often the funniest stories from our experiences come from incidents that at the time they are happening do not seem funny at all. In fact they can seem downright frightening, or just plain embarrassing at the time. Only later can we look back and have a good laugh once our adrenal gland has stopped pumping us full of juice or the sting to our pride has worn off. Take for instance a time I was on a solo backpacking trip in the Hells Canyon Wilderness to a little lake 11 miles from the nearest trailhead in, thank goodness, complete solitude.

My mission was to catch some vibrant cutthroat trout in the pristine waters of one of the more off the beaten track lakes in the area. After arriving at the lake, and setting down my backpack the first thing I did was, not set up camp, but grab my fishing rod and head for the nearest log jutting out into the lake to make a few casts.

In these lakes it can seem quite important to the exuberant fisherman to fling his or her lure to the very middle of the lake, even though a majority of the fish probably live somewhere much nearer the shore. In order to accomplish this feat a downed log that juts out in to the water can seem like the perfect casting platform in order to get you just that much closer to the middle of the lake. Of course, the biggest fish in the lake, unquestionably, live in those dark foreboding waters that nary a fisherman before has been able to reach. I found my perfect log near where I planned to camp and made my way out.

As I carefully balanced on the half submerged log out to the point it completely went under the crystal clear water I felt it wobble under my feet and wondered then if maybe this in fact was not the best log to be standing on. It would have to do though as I had one thing on my mind and that was getting my line wet and to turn back now would cost me a whole two minutes of valuable fishing time. I casted as far as my arms could fling the lure (no where near the middle of the lake), let it sink a few seconds, and began the erratic retrieve. Almost instantly I was rewarded with the strike of a nice fish. Everything was going just to plan to this point but things would change in an instant.

It all started with a harmless little bug, ok it was ferocious killer wasp, that decided my leg would be a good place to stop and rest until he felt up to continuing his journey across the lake. Feeling his creepy crawly legs as he shuffled around amongst the hairs on my legs my natural reaction was to lift up the leg, while simultaneously bringing down my hand to swat away the annoyance. This leaves me in the following precarious situation: standing on a semi submerged, and not so steady log, 20 feet from shore, on one leg, fighting a scrappy trout with one hand, swatting a pesky wasp with the other.

Now I am no balance beam gymnast, however I am not exactly uncoordinated either, but everyone has their limits. When I slapped the wasp he only did what comes natural to wasps, just as I had only done what comes natural when one feels something crawling around on your leg. He stung me. Several times. It felt like he just wasn’t going to stop. Well it was all too much and my precious state of balance had been sufficiently compromised and I took a sudden plunge into some very frigid alpine lake water. The water was just deep enough where I fell in that I couldn’t touch. For those wondering, yes, I did still hold on to the fishing rod and yes the fish was still on the other end probably thinking, “Wow, I actually might be winning this tug of war.” I can only imagine the stories he is telling his buddies right now about the time he, a little 12 inch trout, pulled a gigantic 6 foot man into the lake. The incident alone probably became legendary in the lake and he likely became very famous, possibly even gaining instant membership into the very exclusive “Middle of the Lake Lunker Club” usually reserved for the much older, wiser, and bigger trout. The deep dark waters there are a place often feared by small fish like him but he has free reign there now and the larger fish give him a wide swath remembering the legend.

Back to my end of the line, I gasped and sputtered to the surface. These alpine lakes are cold even in the heat of the summer and the surprise of it all added to the shock I was experiencing. I think there was a time where my brain just said “this is too much sensory overload, I am shutting down for a bit” as I really remember very little between this time and when I was safely wringing out my clothes on the shore. I had held on to the pole this whole time but the fish came unpinned somewhere in all my flailing around.

I have always been very glad that the access to this lake was a grueling, rocky 11 mile trail thus assuring me of solitude as I did my version of “Swan Lake” there on that log. Now had there been witnesses present they may have been able to see this as it was, a very funny incident right from the start, but I admit it took me a few sputtering moments to see the humor in what had just happened.

Mr. Bleep the Lonely Muskie

The following true story is actually only about one percent true, just enough to make you wonder what is real and what is not. The names have all been changed including the name of Mr. Bleep to protect the innocent, the guilty, and my own sorry self. Any similarities between subjects of this story and real live people should be considered a coincidence and a personal problem and should be dealt with in an appropriate manner. Preferably with professional help.

Mr. Bleep has always lived a fairly normal life by Muskie’s standards. He is just a regular old muskellunge fighting for his piece of territory in a cruel world where often, to Mr. Bleep, it seems that only the most devious and conniving Muskie’s get ahead. As a Muskie Mr. Bleep was used to all the stereotypes he had endured and the solitary lifestyle he was forced to lead due to a couple slanderous articles written about his fellow Muskie’s gone bad. “Muskie bites child, 100 stitches needed,” “Rouge Muskie on loose in Lake Winnebashabalarama, causes panic in townsfolk,” “Small deer swallowed by Muskie while attempting to cross Lake Muskellunge,” on and on they went, stories that struck undue fear in the hearts of fishermen, swimmers, ducks, and kittens. Mr. Bleep tried to not let these tall tales affect his attitude towards people in general, knowing that two wrongs would never make a Muskie loveable, but he found himself becoming more and more elusive and withdrawn as each story came to print. He would usually only come out of his hiding when driven by the severe hunger pains that would come upon him in a flash. He had discovered that a simple duckling or five would tide him over and he could go back to his humble lair to sulk again and wonder why he was so misunderstood. Meanwhile a little puff of yellow duckling down would float softly from his lips to the glassy surface of the lake. It was certainly a tough life, being a Muskie.

On one relentlessly humid afternoon in August on the porch of the cabin of the Muskie fisherman a visiting young, know-it-all, college kid named, uh…um well let’s just call him Joe, was sitting around waiting for the next mosquito to land on his arm so he could continue some ongoing testing of his longstanding theory in entomology, the theory of the exploding mosquito. The basis of this theory was really founded on some dedicated research done in third grade standing in the middle of a flood irrigated pasture teaming with the little pests, so its results were a little up in the air and unofficial but Joe persisted. The Muskie fisherman and his loving family could only stare in awe at the sight of actual, highly regarded research being done, right before their very eyes by a genuine student, of a very illustrious American university. The testing method used was to allow mosquitoes to bite Joe and when they got their pointy schnozzer down deep in his muscle fibers, he would flex as hard as he could, thus “trapping the mosquito” as the pressure on his sucker wouldn’t allow him to pull it back out. Joes unproven theory, then, was that mosquitoes do not have a shut off valve thus meaning the trapped pest would keep on taking blood but be unable to fly away until finally, BOOM, it finally exploded. Interesting theory, but all Joe ever got from it was a bunch of big itchy mosquito bites. After a couple hours of fruitless testing Joe got up to try to find some Benadryl ointment. As he ambled past the coffee table on the way to the first aid kit he noticed a book lying on the beat up old end table. It was a book that would have made Mr. Bleep cringe.

“When Muskie’s Attack.” A book by Joe P. Muskie Hater. A book filled with gruesome tales of Muskie’s and their apparent disregard for human life. However, Joe noticed that even with all the terrible, yet fascinating stories in the book there was a disclaimer inside the cover stating that most of the stories could not be confirmed as actual Muskie attacks and could have simply been the result of general human stupidity and/or drunkenness. So, Joe concluded, what they were saying was that the guy with the jagged missing finger he tells the ER he got while simply washing his hands in the lake, where a misguided Muskie mistook his wedding ring for the flash of a bait fish, could actually have been the result of some poor choreography in a ceremonial “fat, drunk, and stupid guy, pretend knife fight, with real, rusty knives” around the camp fire. Despite Joe’s previous behavior in this story with the mosquitoes you will have to trust me now, Joe, himself, denies having ever participated in such a ridiculous ceremony in his life. Joe, though, liked the thought that animals as ferocious as the mighty Muskie did in fact live in the waters surrounding the weathered cabin he found himself in.

Catching Joe reading his high class literature the Muskie fisherman saw an opportunity to really mess with the snooty kids mind and offered his boat and expert guide services for a Muskie fishing experience he would never forget. The plan? Get up at o’dark thirty, eat a breakfast fit for a grease fire, and slap the water with lures the size of baby gators. Joe could never say no.

Joe had several dreams that night, and they all ended the same way. With an elongated fish with huge fangs slashing at his lily white toes, which he had been instructed to dangled in the water over the side of the boat, as the now decidedly deranged Muskie Fisherman’s idea of chumming.

“Is this really why he wants me a long,” Joe began to question? “Am I just bait?”

After one especially vivid and terrifying nightmare Joe sat bolt upright eyes wide just as the Muskie fisherman stood over him holding a five foot long musky mount that had been hanging over the dusty black fireplace. Really, all he had wanted to do was wake the kid up in the proper frame of mind, ready to tackle the task of the day, but the timing became too perfect. Suddenly arising from a terrible dream only to open his eyes and see the gapping mouth of the mounted Muskie staring back at him with two inch incisors at the ready was a supreme catalyst for Joes fight or flight instincts. His choice it turns out was flight. Later, when Joe’s sobs had slowed to a reasonable interval the Musky fisherman went up on the roof to assess the damage done, and to consider the possibility of simply adding that skylight he had always wanted in the hole Joe made in his vertical escape. Then in his kindest voice he began to attempt to coax Joe out of the top of a nearby giant pine. What Joe decided he really would need to calm his nerves was a double latte, foo foo, mocha, frapacoacoa, whatever coffee drink that all the college kids were drinking in those days. Preferably in a double insulated Styrofoam cup with a prefitted lid to prevent spills, and one of those little plastic stirrers that Joe sometimes liked to see if he could use for a straw. Just another bit of research Joe liked to do in his spare time and why some said he had a narrow head. Sucking an entire Wendy’s Frosty through that small of a hole, while possible, does have long term affects. What he got instead was a cup of black, oozing, semi- liquid, more grit than not camp coffee in a metal cup with no handles prestirred by the Muskie fisherman’s mustache. And so began the day Mr. Bleep was named.

On the water the day began to slip into a monotonous rhythm. You see, Muskie’s also have another, far more reasonable, and accurate reputation. “The fish of 10,000 casts.” So the best way for Joe to improve his chances for success was to keep casting. Cast, retrieve (9,999 to go), cast, retrieve (9,998), cast, retrieve (9,997), soon the lack of sleep was catching up with Joe. The problem was the camp coffee was playing another game on the young fisherman’s nervous system. On one hand he wanted curl up on the floor of the boat and just sleep, on the other he wanted to climb out of his skin and with his legs churning in a blur like some hyperactive cartoon character zoom out across the water and see how far he could make it before he sunk. It was funny what a half gallon of black coffee could do for you.

It was nearing high noon when the boat pulled up to waters surrounding the island claimed as Mr. Bleep’s royal kingdom, and fate was set in motion. A bleary eyed college kid, a grim determined Muskie fisherman, and a misunderstood down on his luck Muskie all converging on this one point in time.

There was one word of advice the cranky Muskie fisherman had told Joe that soon would stick in his head, and for time to come cause him to ask, “how do you do that again?”

“If you see a Muskie following your lure” he had said, “when you pull it in close to the boat jab the tip of your rod in the water and splash it around, this will make the Muskie think its prey is getting away and could incite a vicious and fatal attack.” Then remembering the kid’s nerves were a little shot he had tempered his words. “I mean bite…on the lure...not you…I promise.”

Simple enough Joe had thought at the time. But Joe is a trout fisherman from a land where one doesn’t worry about dangling your feet in the water. He was not wise to the way a five foot long fish with a head shaped strangely like a gators, looks as it cruises up to within inches of the boat, especially when one is under the frayed nerve influence of dank camp coffee.

Joe threw his chunk of painted wood with wobbly plastic eyes and ominous treble hooks, which could double as an anchor in a pinch, out into a promising protected bay by the little island. Just like every other cast before this one, he retrieved it (9,322 casts to go). But this time as the lure approached the boat there was an odd presence ghosting along in its wake. In the ripples of the lakes surface it was hard to make out and comprehend just what this slow moving thing was. Then it clicked and Joe did what every self respecting person would do in this situation. He let out an almost inaudible “son-of-a-b#$%&” that had about as much life as the last words of a dying man in an old western movie. Before he could tell himself it was okay, “listen to the words of the wise Muskie Fisherman, rod tip down, splash around,” he instinctly yanked the rod UP pulling the lure safely away from any undue harm it may have been subject to in the mouth of such a beast. Sudden realization came upon Joe that he had failed at the one word of Muskie fishing advice he had received, Joe glanced over at his Muskie mentor and saw a big toothy grin had enveloped his face. He hadn’t seen it happen but by the sputters and coughs, the pale complexion, and the sudden cursing habit the usually mild mannered Joe had taken on the cagey Muskie Fisherman knew exactly what had transpired. “Mr. Bleep” he chuckled. “That’s his new name. We’ll remember he is here and come try him again later.” And Joe? Suddenly he wasn’t tired, and he felt surprisingly immune to the effects of the camp coffee. “So this is what keeps a guy casting” he thought. Cast, retrieve (9,321), cast, retrieve (9,320), cast, retrieve (9,319)…

Mr. Bleep slunk quietly back under his log and pouted. He had seen the fear in the kids face. The way he had reacted to seeing a Muskie up close and personal, and it just hurt too much. When were people going to understand? The harsh realities of Muskie life were upon him again. Suddenly he caught the movement of a young Loon’s frantically paddling feet out of the corner of his eye and he felt that little twinge of hunger. The Loon was at least as big as five ducklings. Being a Muskie was tough business for sure. But, he decided, when you are hungry it pays to have sharp teeth. He slowly moved off in the direction of the panicked Loon.

“It never hurts to check things out” he thought.