Cross your fingers for me.

The Wonderdog during yesterday's scouting trip

The results of yesterday’s walk/scouting trip to the lake with Wally the Wonderdog weren’t compelling, but they were interesting; the lake was murky but not muddy, and yes, the inlets were moving a lot of water (where fish tend to gather).

It’s too early for smallies, but it’s just right for trout. And there are these fancy-schmancy streamers that need a little field testing to see if they really “drive big fish crazy” like the maker says. (I don’t know if it’s true, but I like the sound of it.)

See you on the lake (maybe), Tom Chandler.

He returned from lunch, and as he unlocked the door, I asked him if he was Ted Fay.

He looked at me and said “Boy, I sure hope not. He’s been dead better than ten years.”

An Upper Sacramento Original

Sunday found myself, Steve Bertrand and the legendary Joe Kimsey fishing Trout Lake — a manmade reservoir on the Shasta Wildlife Refuge. (And no, I don’t know why they call it Trout Lake — it’s home to damn few trout, housing mostly largemouth bass and bluegill.)

It’s not the world’s prettiest lake, but it holds the potential for some decent largemouth bass, a fish not often found in this area.

And frankly, the lake wasn’t the main attraction; it was a chance to fish with Joe — a local legend who remembers the Upper Sacramento and McCloud Rivers when they ran thick with salmon and steelhead.

Joe Kimsey and a good-sized Trout Lake largemouth bass

You ignore access to that kind of history at your own peril, and I never get tired of soaking up Joe’s stories — like the origins of the battered red canteen he brought on the trip.

“Some guy left this in my truck more than 30 years ago, and I guess he isn’t going to want it back now.”

On the sometimes-windy lake, we fished poppers and streamers (the streamers we fished on slow-sinking lines — fast sinking lines tend to foul in the weeds).

In the end, hanging out with Joe eclipsed the fishing by a fair amount; we landed two bass, lost three others, and — embarrassingly — didn’t get a single rush from a bluegill.

Trout Lake is an unremarkable lake where the winds blow in the afternoon.

Still, when you get to hear stories about what this county was like before Shasta Dam went in — and also learn where a guy looking to shoot a deer might want to hang out this fall — then the day simply isn’t wasted.

For those of you who haven’t met Joe, he holds court at the Ted Fay Fly Shop, and though he sold it to Bob Grace many years ago, he still works there because — as he famously told me right after his 70th birthday — “that’s where all the girls are.”

He might be wrong about that, but the right attitude garners him all kinds of style points.

Joe’s a little bent from age and he doesn’t hear as well as he used to, but his cast remains fluid, smooth and straight.

A few years ago – in the middle of an alpine meadow – I stared enviously while he peppered a small stream’s undercut bank with casts.

Each time, the fly landed on the edge of the current, and he deftly drifted it down the seam, using imperceptible flicks of the rod tip to keep the dry bouncing off the blades of grass lining the bank

It was an impressive demonstration; one I’ve neither forgotten – nor successfully imitated. (Though I’ll keep trying.)

Joe rarely fly fishes the Upper Sacramento any more, preferring calmer waters, though he still ties the famous Ted Fay Bomber nymphs by the dozen.

He also still tries to shoot a deer every fall, and at times, it seems like he knows every logging road, campsite and small stream in the surrounding mountains.

Plus, he’s got a wicked sense of humor, and that’s why — despite landing exactly one largemouth bass and losing two others — the day’s fishing was far from pointless.

Joe Kimsey, waiting for the trailer to arrive.

See you on the lake, Tom Chandler.

Technorati Tags: fly fishing,fishing,trout lake,largemouth bass,joe kimsey

Instead, calm and serene sounded pretty damned good — and the Upper Sac and its tributaries were moving some serious water — so in a classic example of finding what I thought I was looking for, ended up on Lake Siskiyou.

Steven Bertrand provided the transportation (boat), and we basically didn’t catch fish when we visited the "usual" uplake spots, though I have to say I still looked pretty good doing it.

 
Siskiyou is calm place (OK, not so much on weekends).

Later, we motored to our best smallie/bluegill water, where apparently fish and frustration waited for us in equal doses.

On one brushy stretch, I did manage four grabs on a popper in a matter of minutes, though in ample testament to my laid-back state and the lack of any predatory edge, I only boated one smallie.

Shameless tupperware plug: the 9′ 6wt Zero Gravity is a nice streamer rod.

Soon, the open-water rises started, and we spent a couple hours chasing trout eating… well, we’re still not sure what they were eating.

The surface film was littered with flying ants, and we pounded up a few grabs from very spooky trout on ant patterns, but we didn’t get bit far more often than we did, creating a suspicion that we didn’t quite get it right.

Midges? Mayfly nymphs? Who knows.

This is what we were chasing later; rise rings, usually coming in groups of 3-4. 

Ultimately, we both missed a handful of takes on ant patterns, and the trout were typically spooky.

They’d create two to three barrel-sized boils before disappearing again, so catching them involved leading them — difficult when you’re never entirely sure which direction they were headed.

I finally hooked and fought a nice trout for several minutes (he just took off every time he saw the boat), and then — like so many unexplained moments in life — the hook just came out.

 
And, as the sun sets slowly in the West…

The Gear Guy

I fished poppers and dry flies using Chris Raine’s 8.5′ 5/6wt hollowbuilt quad prototype, and while it throws a popper nicely with a DT6 line, Next time I’ll try it with a DT 5.

When fishing the wide-open expanses of a lake, I can quickly find myself casting 70 feet while thinking I’m throwing 45 feet, leading me to wonder what the hell happened to my backcast.

I also fished a Corltand Clear Camo sinking line on a 9′ 6wt Orvis Zero Gravity, and while people who fish streamers a lot suggest throwing the fastest tapered rod you can get your hands on, I’m happier throwing a mid-flex rod.

That could mean I’ve stumbled on an essential truth overlooked by the rest of fly fishing, but it’s more likely I’m a little hardheaded about my gear.

So be it.

The Weather

Damn, it’s hot up here. With many of the local rivers absolutely blown out by snow melting (fast) in near 100-degree temperatures, I’ll likely be back on Siskiyou sometime this week, this time trying a little harder to crack the code.

Naturally, you’ll be among the first to hear about it.

See you on the lake, Tom Chandler.

Ladies and Gentlereaders, it’s the annual Pickerel picture:

Pickerel always look like they’re about to pull a knife on you.

Yesterday afternoon, Chris Wheaton — local guide, Grand Lake Canoe builder, Grand Lake Lodge co-owner and Trout Underground Brother-in-Law — called up and suggested a quick evening’s fishing on Big Lake — the shallower, weedier neighbor to Grand Lake.

Chris juggles a loaded guide schedule and keeps things humming around the Grand Lake Lodge’s housekeeping cabins, so I don’t fish with him as much as I’d like.

Still, even the overcommitted sometimes get parole, and it’s not as if someone who’s fished and guided on a lake for nearly five decades needs a lot of time to find the hot spots.

In the first twenty minutes, we’d already landed a 20″ pickerel, a catfish, and a handful of smallmouth bass running from 14″-17″, and Chris turned and said “well, let’s see if we can’t find some big fish.”

Oh.

Yeah. Let’s do that.

We didn’t — though the kick-your-ass-sized smallmouth kept coming — and the only downside to the evening was the planned White Perch harvest.

Last year we’d caught enough White Perch for a small fish fry, but this year we dallied on the smallmouth, hitting the White Perch Honey Hole just a little too late in the evening.

The average fly fisher doesn’t get too excited about White Perch caught on nightcrawlers, but the average fly fisher probably should get excited about minutes-old White Perch fillets battered and flash fried in very hot oil, so they’re not greasy.

In other words, my work here isn’t done.

Still to Come

Tomorrow I may have lucked my way into another monster Grand Lake shore lunch, and the L&T Nancy and I are still planning a way-uplake trip to mirror last year’s trip, where we tried to outrun a storm on its way downlake.

Also coming — a confession: the other evening I fly fished Grand Lake Stream (the river that connects Grand Lake to Big Lake), and still sorta wonder what all the noise is about. We’ll discuss it an upcoming post, where the Grand Lake Stream partisans will surely tell me I’m dead wrong.

Plus, I’m about to post Part III of Jim Troyer’s Fly Fishing Baja series. Don’t miss it.

One Final Question

I received an e-mail from Alert Underground Reader asking me how it was I took vacations to Tennessee and Maine while living the life of a chronically unemployeed writer.

More accurately, he wanted to know how he could do that.

The answer is simple: work hard, invest wisely, and save carefully marry well. See you in Maine, Tom Chandler.

[tags]fly fishing, fishing, big lake, maine, pickerel, grand lake[/tags]

L&T Nancy plays guide, Ned plays the guided. (click pic for big image)

It’s not true, of course, but it sure as hell seems like it is, especially when you’ve got a boathouse filled with Grand Lake Canoes, picnic baskets jammed with sandwiches, and the afternoon free.

Into the boat we went, and up the lake we headed.

Gray? Overcast? You bet:

The Underground goes minimalist (click above picture for bigger image)

Great fishing? It sure as hell started that way — my first cast (because there were three of us in the canoe, I started the day with a casting rod and a black plastic “senko” bait) netted a footlong smallmouth.

My fourth cast got bit (I missed him). My sixth cast was good for an 11″ smallmouth. And while it slowed slightly after that, it was looking good. Real good.

So food, in fact, that greed overcame me, and we decided to run to some “better” water, my thinking being you want to spend the “cosmic” fishing days on the best “big fish” water you’ve got. Plus it was dead calm — great fly rod weather.

My tools ready for a day of carnage on the water.

In other words, I knew I was going to slay ‘em. Big ones too. Real big.

Of course, the Greeks taught us that hubris wasn’t rewarded so much as punished, and halfway to the “cosmic” fishing spots, the punishment appeared: the outboard motor suddenly slowed and quit.

Stopped. Dead. No runnee. No movee.

The Motor Stops. The Engine Whine Begins.

You run the full gamut of emotions when your outboard motor dies. You move through anger and denial, fruitlessly bargain with the motor to start, then finally accept that it’s not going to run.

Your fishing trip is dead.

Still, we got lucky. The motor would idle (I suspected fuel line blockage), and rather than dismantle anything in the middle of the lake, we put-putted (slowly) to the nearby cabin of some of Nancy’s relatives.

There we pulled the motor apart, and discovered that I was… (tada!) dead wrong about the fuel line. A plastic part in the throttle linkage had broken, leaving us dead in the water.

And speaking of dead in the water, while we were working on the motor in the thigh-deep water , I looked down and saw a pair of leeches in the process of forming a close, personal attachment to my thighs.

I reacted like anyone would, which is to say I screamed like a pre-teen girl in a slasher movie calmly and carefully brushed them off before they could do any lasting damage. (And here I thought I was going to catch big fish.)

Fortunately, the L&T Nancy’s Uncle Peter was happy to tow us downlake, and yours truly stayed in the canoe largely as ballast to steer and offer expert towing advice.

It wasn’t a fun-filled ride, especially when we putted through a short rain squall and I realized all my rain gear had been moved to the other boat.

Still, any boat trip that ends back in your own boathouse — limbs, digits and eyes intact — should probably be considered a success, and it’s possible I actually started to feel that way after I stopped shivering.

Still, hope springs eternal in the hearts of all fishermen, and this morning (Friday) I awoke to the very gentle patter of raindrops on the cabin roof.

Yee-ha! It’s going to be a perfect fishing day. I can just tell. I’m going to catch big fish…

[tags]fly fishing, fishing, smallmouth bass, grand lake canoe, senko[/tags]

The sky is gray, the water is dark gray, and the fish aren’t holding tight to cover like they usually do on sunny days. On gray days, the fish seem more willing to move for a bait — a happy day indeed for fly fishers.

And yes, Wednesday was a gray day at East Grand Lake. My heart soars…

Variety: a nice smallmouth and a Redear sunfish fell to the mighty bugger.

In simplest terms, it was a good day to be a fisherman, and as evidence, I kayaked my way to a truckload of smallmouth bass (plus the odd sunfish), who all seemed eager to snack on a black Wooly Bugger.

Fish came shallow. They came deep. They ate as the bait fell, and they ate on a fast strip. One even ate as the bugger dangled off the rod tip on a paddle to new water.

In other words, you should have been here Wednesday.

The Kayak Chronicles

Fly fishing from a small kayak can be a shoulder-wrenching exercise; even a slight wind turns you around, and I often find myself juggling a paddle, fly rod, and fish in an attempt to stay in the “fishy zone.”

The bites were coming fast enough that I often found myself holding a rod in one hand and the paddle in another, which was the signal for the bass to attack the lure.

Those are the times when I’m happy to get the bites and catch the fish, but I’m glad there aren’t any video cameras around to record the “show.”

Then again, no one records my glorious, got-it-all-perfect-and-caught-a-big-fish moments either, but in fairness to the videographers of the world, my ratio of “clown” moments to expert ones is probably in the neighborhood of 50 to 1.

Life — as I’ve noted before — is imperfect.

Float This

A slow-moving, “can’t go too far or my knees will explode” float tube is probably a better fly fishing platform, but a kayak offers you the freedom to roam, and besides, we don’t have any float tubes here.

Later in the day, I even managed to catch seven nice smallies right off the boathouse dock, an impressive number being as I’d never caught more than one off the dock before.

The kayak fish were caught on an intermediate “ghost” line, which was being cast by the 4-pc Orvis Zero Gravity 6wt I reviewed some time ago.

This trip became something of a luggage test for the L&T Nancy and I, so only 4-pc fly rods made the cut. This meant my bamboo rods stayed home, and (for once) made my fly rod choices didn’t involve much agonizing — I only have two 4-pc rods.

Thus, I’m either fishing a 9′ wt Zero Gravity, a wonderfully supple Steffen Brothers 8.5′ 5wt fiberglass rod, or — in the case of a crowded canoe or windy day — one of the local casting/spinning rods.

Simple, eh? More fishing to come from Grand Lake Stream, Maine. But first, a message from the local videographer’s association…

[tags]fly fishing, fishing, maine, grand lake stream, wooly bugger, smallmouth bass[/tags]

Recently conducted studies (I wrote numbers on a piece of paper until I got one I liked) confirm that fishing extends your life 2.47 times the original fishing investment.

That means some of us should live to be 174 years old, which explains why the Social Security Administration has been secretly working with Donny Beaver to halt the growth of fly fishing among the general populace (yes you bastards, I see the black helicopters hovering over the Upper Sacramento).

It doesn’t even matter what kind of fishing you do. Some days you embrace the struggle of a 7x-only spinner fall, and others you’re looking for little more than lawn furniture and cold beer.

The battling smallmouth – still the best high school mascot name.

Yesterday was more the latter than the former, so Steve Bertrand and I rolled out to Lake Siskiyou for an afternoon and evening of pitching poppers. Ahh, the joys of smallmouth.

Also on the bill were a few bluegill — who always acquit themselves with honor despite their small size — and though we chased what appeared to be a few midge-eating trout, we only hooked one, which we didn’t land. Damn.

Of course, one of the reasons I fly fish is for the places it takes me, and one of the reasons I moved here is that even the local lake — often overrun by tourists and locals alike — is still pretty stunning.

Clouds over Lake Siskiyou.

The tourists of Memorial weekend were largely gone, so the Ospreys and eagles were back in numbers.

In fact, enough ospreys were wheeling and diving for fish that the evening became one long episode of Nature Theater; at one point an eagle fought an osprey for the osprey’s fish, taking it away from him in mid-air.

Can’t get that at the mall.

An osprey hunting for dinner at Lake Siskiyou.

A lot is written about why we fish, and what a fishing trip ultimately delivers. In this case — after a hectic week — it delivered exactly what I needed.

I love fishing lakes, and it seems that lakes are gaining a little in popularity among the fly fishing set; Steve Bertrand has already guided the McCloud Reservoir several times this year, with more on tap.

Bertrand doing his Captain thing. Chicks dig it.

I think that’s healthy; fly fishing’s widened its focus the last decade. It’s something practiced by individuals for the benefit of individuals, so loosening the piscatorial straight jacket a little bit can only be a good thing.

Hell, I’m even seeing recipes for carp online. Thanks to everyone who voted in our “where to fish” poll. Sure, I didn’t listem so much, but that’s just what you were expecting me to do.

See how it works? You expect me to zig, so I zag. See you at the polling place, Tom Chandler.

[tags]fly fishing, fishing, fishing lakes, smallmouth bass[/tags]

Forty-five minutes from the boathouse. Don’t believe what I wrote about the seaworthiness of the Grand Lake Canoe? This is the start of our run home. It got much, much worse. (Brought to you via a waterproof camera set to “Winslow Homer “mode.)

Then it started raining very, very hard. The wind whistled. I saw lightning in the dark clouds that were overrunning us.

Which is when things got bad.

Happy, Sunny Day…

The day started peacefully enough. Bluebird even. We fished mostly poppers until early afternoon, caught some nice, hard-fighting smallmouth, had lunch, and largely enjoyed the warm weather.

Early in the day. Stripping a Sneaky Pete in bluebird weather. I’m only seconds away from the trip’s first (and hopefully last) pickerel. (L&T Nancy photo)

With darker clouds looming to the Northwest, we raced to rocky structure in the hopes of catching big, aggressive smallmouth in the dead calm that precedes a cold front. Fish are often unbelievably aggressive at the edge of a front, and because I’m greedy, I wanted a few of them.

And, true to form, I quickly hooked four smallmouth, including a 12” fish and another slightly smaller fish that chased the popper right to the boat. But – despite the years I’ve spent fishing lakes – I wasn’t prepared for what happened next.

I heard a faint hissing noise that kept growing louder – a thousand “snakes on a plane” heading our way. I looked to the Northwest and saw what I can only describe as a solid line of wind on the water.

On one side of the line, the water was dead calm, and on the other, swells were already building.

The “line” washed over us (I’m guessing 30 miles an hour), and the air went from warm and humid to cold and dry in literally a heartbeat.

It wasn’t an isolated gust of wind; it was the leading edge of the cold front that dropped our overnight temperatures 20+ degrees. I’ve seen fronts move in over the course of half an hour, but never one so clearly defined that I could pinpoint its passage to within a couple seconds.

Without a word, I put away my rod and Nancy fired up the motor. “No problem” I thought, “We might get wet, but we’ll stay on the front edge of the storm.”

Duh. I thought wrong.

Twenty minutes from the boathouse. It was raining hard and the thunder was loud, which was just as well – that way the L&T Nancy couldn’t hear me whimpering. (The camera lens dramatically flattens the waves. They were tall.)

It’s tempting to describe the long run home in heroic terms, emphasizing our triumph over the deadly, uncaring forces of nature, but the truth is it was a miserable run where a novice boater (which the L&T Nancy isn’t) could have easily gotten into some serious trouble.

The swells were big, the wind was whitecapping the waves which slapped the canoe, the rain made it hard to see, and – late in the run – the nearby lightning strikes rattled our teeth.

Swamping the canoe or motor in that situation can make a miserable situation dangerous, but even as she navigated the maze of islands and shoals on the way home, Nancy eased us through the worst of the waves with only the bare minimum of trouble.

Five minutes from the boathouse. We were chasing the front edge of the storm, but that white area kept shrinking, and we pretty easily lost the race. It’s hard to see, but we’re climbing the back side of a swell that – despite my elevated angle – obscures the land in front of it.

Competence in a situation like that isn’t so much demonstrated by heroic measures as it a measured calmness – an ability to navigate situations that could easily go from bad to much, much worse (but don’t).

We were fortunate that the last run to the boathouse was downwind, because the thunder and lightning started getting uncomfortably close. Figuring home was a close as any other shelter, Nancy opened the throttle and we rode the waves – arrowing the Grand Laker into the narrow boathouse slot perfectly.

Adventure over.

Thirty seconds from the boathouse. I’m filing the whole affair under “Unintended Outdoor Adventures” and never assuming that a Maine cold front moves at the same speed as the California variety.

Today’s weather is very windy and though the swells are smaller than yesterday, it’s still whitecaps out there. Fishing is unlikely, but I’m going to take the chance to rest up and put together some of the spare pictures from the trip so far.

See you in the boathouse, Tom Chandler

The Grand Lake Canoe doing what it does best…

Spend any time peering down driveways around the tiny town of Grand Lake Stream, and you’ll notice almost as many boats on trailers as cars, and that most of those boats are long, broad-beamed wooden canoes with an upswept bow.

But don’t make the mistake of simply calling it a canoe. You’re almost certainly looking at a Grand Lake Canoe (a “Grand Laker” if you’re into Maine guide slang), and suggesting that its roots run deep around the tiny town of Grand Lake Stream is to underestimate its connection to the area; the Grand Laker has big chunks of Grand Lake DNA directly wired into its genetic code.

The Guide’s Choice

Typically powered by a 9hp motor, it’s a craft that’s perfectly suited to guiding the lakes in the area, where the wind often blows and a lot of water needs to be covered, sometimes in a pretty mean chop.

Like most great tools, it’s a deceptively workable design, and while newer, high-tech boats might cover more water, there’s something irresistible about a wood canoe that’s so perfectly suited to its environment that it’s named for the lake upon which you’re currently fishing.

It even reflects Mainer frugality by fishing for several days on one small tank of gas.

And – unlike bigger boats – a Grand Lake canoe can successfully navigate the boulder-strewn shallows of the local lakes – where submerged boulders the size of houses rise eerily from the depths, often topping out at a keel-scraping inches from the surface.

(Watching a guide casually thread the big, broad-beamed canoe through a slot no wider than the boat itself is breathtaking stuff.)

In addition to negotiating boulder-strewn shallows, it also trailers well, launches easily on unimproved boat ramps, and moves a guide and a couple clients at surprising speeds despite the use of small-displacement motors.

It’s tempting to say that fly fishing from a Grand Laker is like a trip back in time, but that statement belies the sheer fishability of the craft. Like Western drift boats, it’s not still used because a bunch of backward locals can’t give it up, but because it does the job it was intended to – in most cases better than anything that’s come after it.

Nearly a Century of History

The first Grand Lake canoes were built just prior to the 1920s, and because there were no outboard motors, they were “double-enders” which were paddled by guides.

With the advent of the outboard motor came the square stern, and in the 1950s, the Grand Lake canoe underwent its final incarnation: the stern was strengthened (to accommodate bigger motors) and a fiberglass skin replaced the canvas exterior.

The result is a 20′ canoe that handles superbly, even with a guide, two clients, and a lot of gear. And despite their light weight, Grand Lake canoes are famous for their longevity.

It’s common to learn you’re sitting in a canoe that’s several decades old (last visit out I enjoyed the singular experience of fishing from a Grand Laker that was almost as old as I am, and one of the canoes in these pictures was built 30+ years ago).

The reliability of the Grand Laker is so deeply ingrained into the local zeitgeist that when an aluminum skiff flipped a couple years ago (it was late Fall, and a man and his son were lucky to be seen and rescued before hypothermia set in), a couple of locals sniffed that it “wouldn’t have happened in a Grand Laker.”

True or not, it’s a measure of the faith the locals have in the craft – and these are people who are on the big lakes when sudden, violent storms whip up some sizable waves, and get home to tell of it.

Clearly, Grand Lake canoe seems at home here because it is – and the same can be said for the guides who pilot them. You could say that they’re deeply sunk into the traditions of the area, but again, that’s an unnecessarily nostalgic view – unless your view of “fishing” necessarily means warp-drive boats, footlocker-sized tackle boxes, and a lot of yelling and screaming every time you land a fish.

Instead, the Registered Maine Guides – and their Grand Lakers – still do things pretty much the way they were done 50 years ago because nobody’s invented a better way to do it.

[tags]Grand Lake Canoe, Grand Lake Stream, Maine [/tags]

The L&T Nancy was still operating on West Coast time (sleeping), so just after dawn, I grabbed an ultralight spinning rod, shoved one of the camp’s short, stubby kayaks in the water, and paddled into the teeth of a gusting wind that occasionally whipped the rain horizontally.

The weather was courtesy Hurricane Ernesto, who frankly could have found a better time to pummel the East Coast. The Southeast wind made fishing from the tiny kayak an exercise in cast, paddle, retrieve, paddle, retrieve paddle, cast, paddle…

During a brief lull in the wind and rain. To the left is a sunken rock wall…

Fishing’s fishing…

I can’t say with certainty where fly fishing becomes futile, but I correctly guessed that fishing 10′-20′ deep in rain and wind – from a kayak that scooted across the water with every gust – was probably past that point.

Still, fishing a gitzit (a small, squid-like plastic bait) on an ultralight spinning rod is a hell of a lot of fun, and in between gusts, I caught two 10” smallmouth and lost a bigger fish when he spit the gitzit at the kayak (note to self; fumble for the camera before the fish gets to the boat…).

After two hours of fighting the wind and rain, I was drawn ashore by the scent of blueberry/banana pancakes frying in the kitchen. Later, the wind calmed briefly, then switched direction and is now blowing up whitecaps from the northwest, battering the boats that headed uplake before the wind shifted.

Tomorrow

Of course, the primary benefit of being at the start of a long fishing trip is that time is one your side; you can wait on the next day’s weather before deciding what’s next, and it’s possible that more rainy weather will put me on the river, throwing a streamer at the few landlocked Atlantic Salmon still rumored to be there.

Tonight, Nancy and I are cooking maple-and-walnut-crusted pork tenderloin for our anniversary. Lucky food. Lucky guy… See you at the dinner table, Tom Chandler

p.s. – I’m experiencing lots of problems with the reliability (and slug-like speed) of the dial-up connection (been trying to get this post up for over a day). Hopefully better for tomorrow’s post as I’ve got some cool stuff coming…
[tags]Maine, Grand Lake Stream, smallmouth, kayak [/tags]