First Thoughts
Springtime Love
Fishing in Oz
Victory
Spring Conclave
Rushin' It
Head Banging

J-Thoughts - October 18, 2004 ... Head Banging

Vacation to the west coast was glorious this year. With ocean tides crashing in on the rugged cliffs of the Oregon coastline, I found myself almost suicidal as I leaned over edges to view the foaming tides. I, however, refrained from playing Kamikaze with my camera and enjoyed looking for seals and pelicans and other breathing creatures that could attract my zoom lens.

But fishing ... this site's about fishing. I was determined to bring in a big fish this year. My largest fish ever being around 15", I wanted to catch a large rainbow or brown, I didn't care, but have it at least over 20". I would have cried. I did cry. But not because I caught a monster.

The trip started off well enough, but the sinus infection I'd been suffering was settling in to do battle for the long haul and my antibiotics felt about as useless as a squirt gun on Normandy Beach, D-day. The first day on the Gallatin my hopes were appeased by bringing in my beautiful little 8" rainbow "minnow" on a bamboo rod. Bamboo is NOT easy to cast. The tip feels like it's a kid on a big rubber bouncing ball but I tell you, when you catch even an 8" little guy the fight is a heck of a lot of fun. So, I was happy ... the first day.

Day two ... I started off the morning feeling as though my head had been hit by a cannon ball. I'm thankful it didn't LOOK like it. My lifelong fight with Vertigo kicked in and the waves of the Madison River made me feel as though I was slopping back and forth and up and down. Nate tied on a tungsten-bead-head wooly-bugger on my graphite rod and then left me to my mumblings. My casting was WAY off and I was getting cranky and testy. I cast back what I thought was a nice loop and brained myself in the back of the head with the beadheaded bugger. I stood there, fuming and in a small bit of pain. I cast again. Wooly buggers with big beads on the end torpedo through the air at lightening speed, did you know? After receiving my second strike from the miniature nuclear warhead, and only because I was alone with no one to hear, my conversation went something like this:

"Stupid rod! I hate this! I hate stupid wooly buggers. I'm going home. I'm sick and I hate fly fishing but I get dragged out to rivers and I want to catch my big fish. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stu-"

Nate was coming toward me as I was angrily reeling in my line.
"Whatcha doing?" He asked. "I just rigged that up for you"
"I'm sick of fly fishing," I answered wrinkling my nose 'cause I didn't have a kleenex.

Did you ever notice when you have a sinus infection, and you press on the bone right under your eye and by your nose that it feels mushy? And sort of sloppy? Like you can squish gunk back and forth from eye bone to nose. It's sort of entertaining when you're really sick. I've also tried, for the heck of it, to hang upside down in my chair and feel the infectious gunk roll around like a kid on a slip and slide. Well, I never claimed to be a normal person ...

Because Nate seemed disappointed that I wasn't fishing nor catching a big fish, I decided to try again. I stripped out line, hauled back and cast that wooly bugger and promptly torpedoed myself again. Have you ever watched a little kid sob pathetically because they're so bone dead tired they can't even process life itself? That was me. I stood in the middle of the Madison River sobbing my heart out with a wooly bugger laying over my shoulder.

Needless to say, I didn't exactly catch a monster this year ... fishing was tough ... as has been described. But the memories of gunk-rolling (my new name for the sinus infection entertainment) and Torpedo Bombing myself have led me to a conclusion. It's not the big fish you catch, it's the memories made. Memories of a gentle husband leading a semi-insane and hysterical wife to the truck, the pillow, the long sleep for the rest of the day, and the memory of the laughing big brown that was probably tickling my feet as I repeatedly slammed my head with tungsten beads. Oh well ... memories ... smile!

J-Thoughts - August 26, 2004 ... Rushin' It

Well, being Olympic season, I've certainly won the gold for bragging myself up! Posting pictures of my anything but trophy winning fish on the web site and fly fishing messaging board has only served to boost my pathetic ego and eliminate any smidgeon of humility left. Well ... that was after the Rush River and before last Friday.

The Rush River (or should I say, "the river that everyone including their mother knows exists but should never be named because the locals will skewer you alive") is the home of tough-to-catch fish. Throwing in a pink squirrel nymph, I landed around seven in the time it took Nate to rig up his rod. Granted it took him that long because I kept yelling, "take a picture of me!" "Me!" "My Fish!" "Picture of me!". Amazingly, the camera lens did not shatter after the first shot of my grinning mug, the beauty of the trout probably saved the camera. I highly doubt the Olympus warranty covers cracked lenses caused by poses from unshowered, be-capped, blondes with about two days worth of grime on their teeth. Sorry. Ya'll didn't need to know that. Nathan was quick to give and more than generous with his compliments. My casts laid out perfectly with precise presentation.

That was ... until last Friday. Now, albeit, I've quoted Scripture before that says "pride goeth before a fall", but I never seem to learn and I must say, God must roll his eyes from time to time at my arrogance. Friday, we hit a much smaller body of water in Southwestern Wisconsin and I had lost my touch. Seriously. The line whipped in any direction but forward, the flies tied endless knots in themselves (I'm sure it wasn't my fault!), and my presentation was akin to a bullfrog leaping headlong into the stream wearing a backpack filled with rocks. There are no pictures of me from that day, and if I was seriously stuck on myself, I wouldn't even mention my large slice of humble pie that tasted nothing like pie from the local bakery. I wanted to cuss the fish out but Nathan was as quick to remind me it was my problem and lack of practice as he was to pay me compliments. Traitor. Teacher. Jerk. Tolerant Husband. Insensitive Idiot. Love of my life.

So, I wade through my emotional distress at my lack of casting consistency. I cannot wallow in the success on the Rush, and I can't rush the success on other streams. Practice is usually critical to anyone's success, but really, folks, didn't you know I am a NATURAL at everything I touch? Surely, I can skip the practice and cast like a pro. Surely. Maybe. Not.

J-Thoughts - June 16, 2004 ... SPRING CONCLAVE

Well, it was my first conclave ever. Considering Noah's Flood attempted to repeat itself in our basement and keep us from the Clave, I hung to the Biblical promise that a flood would never again cover the face of the earth and hoped it applied to the face of my basement as well. Besides, I didn't feel like hauling in pigs in pairs and forbid the thought I'd have to house spider duets!! (Gotta give Noah credit, folks!)

On the way to the Clave I discovered (a bit belatedly) that my introverted self (where'd THAT come from!) hit and the thought of fly fishing with others besides Nathan was intimidating to say the least. So, I delegated myself official photographer and bookreader. We met up with Mark (schemar1) almost immediately upon arrival and though I had thought the fevered look in Nathan's eyes for the weekend of fishing was terrifying, the look in Mark's was utterly stunning. It sort of reminded me of the Little Caesar's pizza ad where the guy runs all over the TV screen growling, "pizza, pizza, pizza!". Only in Mark's case, it was "fishing, fishing, fishing!" It was also great to meet Todd_T, GeorgeCleveland, etc. ... but I began to feel the "fever" had attacked and was quickly spreading to more than just Mark and Nathan.

I had barely choked down my dry, disgusting salami sandwich than I was yanking on waders with Nate and Mark and tucking 2 novels into my chest pocket along with an extra fly box for Nathan, the digital camera and a Gatorade bottle of ice water. It was then I realized, I had become the Pack Mule. Keeping up with those two was like keeping up with Louis and Clark. The adventure led us deep into the bowels of the Rush River (well, maybe a 1/4 of a mile), and the fish again began to taunt us. Hiding, but briefly peeking their nose to the surface to only play hide and seek again. As Mark and Nathan began to moan from the fever, I started Black Fly Brigade, frequently slugging my husband to kill the flies, and taking much delight in the justified thrill. I kept closing the biting flies between the pages of my borrowed library book and thinking, "wow, that next lady reader is sure gonna love all the fly guts I left her!" It became almost a sadistic form of entertainment for me. I enjoyed playing fly-flunker as the guys played fly-fisherman. I flunked a fly here, flunked a fly there, here a flunk, there a fly, everywhere a flunk, flunk. I wanted to slug Mark on the back a few times, but I figured he probably wasn't as prepared for my flying fists as Nathan was, so I refrained, uttering a silent prayer that the fly on the back of his neck wouldn't leave too big a welt.

After a relatively successful evening of fishing,we headed back to camp with Mark looking like he'd caught a bad case of the chicken pox, when in actuality, the mosquitos had made mincemeat out of him. Both men caught enough fish to feel somewhat appeased, like an ice bath to bring the fever down, but not eliminate it. A helping of "crap soup" (don't ask!) was enough to make me sleepy, and so with my head in my lap (literally - figure that one out!) I fell asleep to the sounds of fly fishing stories, fish growing larger by the sentence, and men hungry to return to the streams.

Does the fever ever really go away? Perhaps it does abate after awhile. I saw it go to sleep in the eyes of my husband on Sunday morning as the sun beat down with rays that threatened to laser burn you right into the earth.
"We're going home", Nathan said.
"Home?" I breathed. He met my eyes with a firm determination.
"HOME!" He announced solemnly and I closed my eyes in satisfaction as I imagined my air conditioned home and a hot shower. It was then I heard him utter, "Maybe it's overcast back home and we can hit some streams over yonder".

But, it wasn't Nathan that convinced me that the fever never dies. It was Mark. Mark who danced an early morning jig like red ants were attacking (or perhaps black flies) as he searched for a spare set of polarized glasses and had a crazed look that perhaps only a straight jacket and padded walls could help.

Yes, the fever still burns, and for some reason I seem to be the only balanced individual of the bunch. I mean, what's so crazy about a girl hauling Nathaniel Hawthorne novels down streams, and watching the water for rising fish like an eagle searches for its dinner? We won't tell Nathan and Mark about the fish that kept rising in front of me and the kingfisher that swooped down and yanked it from our midst ... I wonder if the fever can spread to birds? Apparently so.

That's all for this clave ... maybe the next one I'll get some guts and fly fish myself - if I'd just collected all the fly guts I squashed I'd probably have enough to make up for my own lack of!

J-Thoughts - May, 2004 ... VICTORY
I caught my first Wisconsin trout on a fly rod!!!!!!!!!! ... there's absolutely nothing else to say because words cannot sum up the feeling!

J-Thoughts - April 12, 2004 ... FISHING IN OZ

Maybe Dorothy and Toto found a way to make circular wind tunnels work to their advantage (hence - adventure in the Land of Oz), but I've yet to discover how to capture the indelible forces of nature and have them benefit my own pursuits. My own Oz adventures have landed me squarely in the middle of no-name creek with a black bugger embedded in my nest of dishwater-brown hair and a husband trying not to laugh after this all proceeds my none-too-humble boast of: "honey, let me show you how it's done". The wind picked that streamer right up, swirled it around in the air as though taking a quick jaunt in a food processor, and then landed it squarely, hook down, I might add, on my head. So much for pride ... proof the Bible has Scriptual authority ... pride DOES go before a fall ... in this case, a wooly-bugger's fall into my magnetic hair.

The fish are laughing at me, here on the aquamarine-blue (not!) murky waters of early-spring Wisconsin. I believe they sing out in their bubbly, watery voices, "if she only had a brain!" and perhaps a shaky trout-voice adds in mockery, "you'll catch me, my pretty!" ... knowing full well it has lived to see another hookless day, and "pretty" to describe my red, windburned face is a longshot at best!

It's not my fault, really, it isn't. Because you really stop to think about a beginning fly-fisherper-people- ah! forget politcal correctness - flyfishing chick! - it's really hard to do a nice long backcast over one's shoulder in the cold spring hurricane without snagging the dead branch, the tall weed, the cow, or the husband!! It is! Needless to say, my first two explorations into the world of fly fishing 2004 have left me eating humble pie, clicking the heels of my ruby wading boots, and mumbling, "there's no place like Montana, there's no place like Montana" ...

J-Thoughts - March 1, 2004 ... SPRINGTIME LOVE

Well, here it comes ... another new season of flyfishing-widowhood marked by the ever so apparent absence of my husband and the mysterious disappearence of his flyrods that were so carefully propped in the corner of his office throughout the winter. You know, in a way, it will be a relief. This winter was marked by comments that quickly turned into cliches that then evolved into words so engraved in my head they're more permanent than the engravings on a tombstone!

"I can't wait for winter to be over"
"We need more moisture for the streams"
"I wonder if the steelhead have started running yet"
"When we go to Montana this year ..." (What about Prince Edward Island, honey?)

Oh sure ... the first weekend of early trout season is upon us and I'm laying on the sarcasm thick as mud, but in the back of my mind I'm trying to remember where I placed my 2003 fishing license, and thinking, if I throw on some longjohns, a couple million fleece shirts, about 40 of those insty-heatpacks from the wilderness store, and my trusty fishing gloves my husband bought for me ... I just might tag along. Well, the laughs on me, I guess. I may not have immortalized comments like "I am going crazy cooped up inside", "if I build another fly rod it just might get me through 'til March", and "When we go to Montana this year ...", but I have my own brand of fishing fever ... and about 50 good books just waiting to get wrapped up in a ziplock and stuffed in a trusty wader pocket. Mmmm... trout - here I come - your greatest nemesis, your biggest monster, your - who am I fooling? I am the William Hung of the fly fishing world (for those of you following the American Idol fallouts this year). I am the woman who shall follow her man ... though cold weather and ice take her sanity.

J-Thoughts - October 12, 2003 ... FIRST THOUGHTS

Okay. So here's the first tale for the site - or thoughts - but I've been told thinking is dangerous (at least when it's me who's thinking), so we'll call them "tales":
I don't know what it was about fly fishing that nabbed my husband the first year of our marriage - which wasn't all that long ago. When we were dating, my dad warned me that I could become a "golf widow" (all our great dates were spent on the golf course - watching grass grow). My Dad didn't warn me about fly fishing. I was faced with a choice, learn to fly fish and hike - er -trudge - alongside of my faithful prince charming, or stay home ... alone ... which was where I was before we got married. I learned to hike, I haven't done so well at the fly fishing part. And that's where my hang up is (literally).

I was told that fly fishing was becoming one of the most popular outdoor sports for women. Where ARE these women, I might ask? My best gals frequent the art fairs or the shopping malls ... it's really fun trying to explain my excitement over the latest "trophy" trout my husband caught (and it's GENUINE excitement!) when my gal-pal is flipping out over a pair of sterling earrings she got at Kohls for 20% off. Not to knock, her, I get excited over that too ... but c'mon ... trout - earrings - trout - earrings - you do the math. The ratio of women raving over earrings is much larger than females gushing over trout. Then when I explain to these female friends of mine that I don't EAT the trout, that rather, I kindly and gently replace them into their natural habitat, they look at me as though I've somehow made a sacrilege of the Friday Night Fish Fry.

Okay, so in reality, I'm a very "prissy" fisherwoman. I don't enjoy bushwhacking through grass that's over my head. The muck in the bottom of these streams is akin to the Black Hole and I swear one of these days I'm going to disappear and my husband will cash in on my life insurance policy. Try to explain that one ... wife - dead of muck suck. And the spiders ... why did ARE there spiders? I've yet to figure that one out. I can take any kind of insect you throw at me - gee, I'll even EAT them like on Survivor if it'll please you, but keep the 8-legged arachnid away from my vicinity, for goodness sakes, don't you know I have an anti-spider-aura around me???

On the otherhand though, I have to dish out my own kudos to myself. When I was little, I dreamed of being married and fly fishing never factored into the dream ... but when it nabbed the attention of my husband I determined, rather than compete, of which I had no chance of winning, I would join. I suppose I should dish out a few kudos to Nathan who puts up with this woman and has untied a zillion knots, scaled a thousand trees, shouted a million "fish ons!" only to follow it up with an, "oops - you missed him".

I think, maybe, some women have short changed themselves. In our quest for independence we've all too-often sacrificed valuable, precious, unbelievable time with our husbands because we're not willing to "try" or acquiesce to something our husband may ask of us. I have found the "sacrifice" to be worth it ... and as time goes on ... it's not such a sacrifice anymore. But a gift. A blessing, if you may. A blessing of time with each other, in the presence of trout, unwrapping flyline from Jaime's hair. How much better a Hallmark Moment can you create?