Healing Waters

A Guest Post 

By Steve Zakur

Last week, Emily's husband, David, received a kidney from his sister. I

pray that all is going well for both of them and that they'll be back

at something resembling normal soon.

Writers often wax poetic about the healing powers of our sport. The

syrup that is poured on the topic would put a six-year old sugar junky

off the thing. But there is something to the notion.

I find that time on the water helps me physically distance myself from

the stressful noise in my life. It's more difficult to stop the mental

machinations and it can take several consecutive days before the

voices in my head turn from work to fly selection and reading water;

eventually my head emerges from hunched shoulders.

Efforts like Casting for Recovery and Project Healing Waters take

folks wounded by chance and by war and introduces them to the things

that most of us find each day on the water. While I'm sure it's not

everyone's game, I bet some wounded find the connection to that

something we all know and move forward.

 Last weekend I stood in the sleet and snow in Pulaski, NY. After two

days of Indian Summer, the weather turned to what most know as
typical Steelhead weather.

The morning started out gloomy. Just before the weather turned almost

a dozen anglers stood under gray skies in the run below where Jonny

and I were fishing. Everyone was doing their best to put in the time

when the bite was clearly off. While I didn't feel crowded by the

other anglers, it was clearly different from the normal, solitary

existence of a small steam angler.

As the weather shifted and the sleet, hail, and snow fell I was

shocked to see the masses scatter. Aren't Steelheaders known for their

hardiness? Within fifteen minutes we had the entirety of the run to

ourselves. Far too much water for one to fish but very pleasing to

have to one's self.

All that was left was the rhythm of the cast, the rush of the water,

and the sound of pelting weather on my jacket. The only thoughts I had

were of fly selection and sensing tension on the line. In the next

hour I caught nothing but released much. If not for the clock running

out on this trip I could have done with a bit more casting and

stepping through the healing water. And I wouldn't have minded another

tug by a fish-shaped, nickel-bright object.

Life is busy right now. Demands both personal and professional seem to

have peaked and there's precious little room for anything else.

Like most of you I will continue to tuck away quick trips to the

water; to find and preserve that something else that exists.

Some days it is just fishing. But mostly, it's something else.

I thank Steve Zakur for being a guest writer today. 

 You can enjoy more great writing by Steve,

over at sippingemergersdotcom.

Turkey Day...Time To Take A Couch!

Thanksgiving is a day when many Americans gather together with family for an afternoon of food and football, but just how far do people travel to spend turkey day at Grandma's house?  The AAA estimated that 42.2 million Americans traveled more than 50 miles over Thanksgiving weekend last year. 

Here are some fun factoids...errr...giblets for you.

1.  The National Turkey Federation estimated that 46 million turkeys—one fifth of the annual total of 235 million consumed in the United States in 2007—were eaten at Thanksgiving.

2.  Cranberry production in the U.S. is expected to reach 750 million pounds in 2011. Wisconsin, Massachusetts, New Jersey, Oregon and Washington are the top cranberry growing states.

3.  According to the Guinness Book of World Records, the largest pumpkin pie ever baked weighed 2,020 pounds and measured just over 12 feet long. It was baked on October 8, 2005 by the New Bremen Giant Pumpkin Growers in Ohio, and included 900 pounds of pumpkin, 62 gallons of evaporated milk, 155 dozen eggs, 300 pounds of sugar, 3.5 pounds of salt, 7 pounds of cinnamon, 2 pounds of pumpkin spice and 250 pounds of crust.



4.  The sweet potato is most plentifully produced in North Carolina, which grew 972 million pounds of the popular Thanksgiving side dish vegetable in 2010. Other sweet potato powerhouses included California and Mississippi, and the top producing states together generated over 2.4 billion pounds of the tubers.

5.  Though many competing claims exist, the most familiar story of the first Thanksgiving took place in Plymouth Colony, in present-day Massachusetts, in 1621.  Plymouth colonists and Wampanoag Indians shared a harvest feast, acknowledged as one of the first Thanksgiving celebrations.  The first Thanksgiving celebration lasted three daysMore than 200 years later, President Abraham Lincoln declared the final Thursday in November as a national day of thanksgiving. Congress finally made Thanksgiving Day an official national holiday in 1941.



6.  The top five most popular ways to serve leftover Thanksgiving turkey are: sandwiches, soups or stews, salads, casseroles, and stir-fry.

7.  Only tom turkeys gobble. Hen turkeys make a clucking noise.  A large group of turkeys is called a flock.

8.  Several Thanksgiving day parades are broadcast on television. These parades are organized by big stores in several American cities. The parade organized by the Macy's store in New York is the biggest. Giant balloons 200 meters high float above the street. The balloons are in the shape of creatures from popular cartoons and television programs. People on the ground hold heavy ropes so the balloons do not fly away.  Hey...Look!  It's Mr. Potato Head!!

Stemming from traditions seen in Europe, the first parade was put on by Macy’s employees who were first-generation immigrants wanting to have festivals similar to the ones their families experienced growing up in Europe.

9.  Thanksgiving also is a time when Americans share what they have with those who do not have much. Churches and other groups provide free meals for old people, the homeless, and the poor. Many Americans give turkeys or other food to these groups. Some spend part of the day helping to prepare and serve the meals.  Several families in my neighborhood go downtown in the morning to the homeless shelter.  It is a great experience to volunteer and share time with those that are so truly appreciative.

10.  Did you know that the River Damsel started her blog on November 24, 2010?  Yes, my friends, the blog is coming up on its two year anniversary!  Wow... Hard to believe.  This will be the  264th post.  And we've almost hit the 100k mark on views.   I know that it wouldn't have been as successful if it wasn't for my wonderful readers and commentors. 

So, thank you from the bottom of my little RD heart.  I have thouroughly enjoyed my time with my fellow bloggers.  The friendships made are definitely a bonus... It has been a fun ride as I have traveled around the states visiting some of you.  And it's not over...yet!  Next year's calendar includes Western New York, Colorado, and New Mexico.   So, we will take the lap top along and write about more journeys.  Because it is an "adventure in every riffle"...

HAVE A WONDERFUL HOLIDAY

AND

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!!!

                                                         <"(((((><<
                                   (Sorry...don't know how to draw a turkey!)

Ice Ice Baby!

Could this be the Siberian cousin of the Tenkara Sasquatch???

With winter on the doorstep, all of us fishermen have a decision.  To put up the rod until spring or to battle the elements of cold, ice and snow...  I made the decision last year to ski in the morning and fish in the afternoon.  And it worked out great!  But, this year, I want to add a new dimension to my winter fun.  Ice Fishing!  That's right.  And to learn from one of the best on the summer stillwater and the winter ice... Craig Peacock.  This fisherman is from my hometown, Salt Lake City, and helped me find my first tiger trout last year.  And this winter...yes...it is "Ice Ice Baby"!

Thanks, Craig, for giving us a few tips today on ice fishing and keeping those fishing rods out during the winter months!

ICE ICE BABY! 

By Craig Peacock

I am honored to be a guest blogger for the week.  I hope for a speedy recovery for the patient and the return of the River Damsel in the very near future!

Gone are the summer days of camping. 

No more riding:

 No more BBQ:

It is time to face the reality that the float tubes and still water fishing are done for the year.   It is time for the ice to gum up the guides and the snow to stick to the boots and the bugs to get smaller and smaller.  It is everyone’s least favorite time of the year!  (Except for the River Damsel's)

No more of this...

May I offer an alternative to this cold miserable time of year?  ICE FISHING!  Granted, it is not my favorite type of fishing, but it is better than not fishing at all.  Done right with the right equipment and gear, it can actually be quite a riot!  I would suggest you need some gear to get out and enjoy it and the initial investment can be fairly cheap or super expensive depending on what your tastes are.  You can go as cheap as a used hand auger and ice fishing rod a few jigs and get a setup for under $50 and be fishing.  You also can buy an ice hut, heater, flasher, power auger, multiple rods, tons of tackle, and a snowmobile to haul it all out and invest 10K.  It is all up to you! 

This author chooses and ice hut, heater and power auger for comfort.  I am a wimp when it comes to the cold sometimes.  Being toasty and eating a nice, hot bowl of soup and catching fish at the same time... is a lot of fun.  We generally bring out the lanterns and can fish all night if we want to.  But with a heater you can fish in short sleeve shirts and be comfortable in the tent.  (I can see the River Damsel shaking her head "yes"!)

 

I would recommend visiting your local sporting goods store and talking to the sales staff.  You will need some basics and ice rod, strike indicator, jigs or bait, warm clothes, and something to sit on.  The best piece of advice I was given, was the strike indicators.  The bit is so light even with some really large fish that you must have this piece of equipment.  Do not wait until you can feel the strike!  When the wire indicator moves... you set that hook and hold on!!  Give it a try and you might find that ice fishing is the cure for the winter blues. 



Fly Fishing With Kids ~ Sunday Tippets

For the longest time, I have wanted to do a post on the benefits  of teaching kids how to fly fish.  Well, now I finally have the opportunity to share someone's experiences with this!  I have been following a blog that represents "family fishing" to the max...  Brian Bradfield, of brianonthefly, brings fun and family togetherness to the outdoors.  A western New Yorker, his home fishing includes trophy lake run brown trout, salmon and steelhead.  They have it all!  It has been a delight to follow him on his journeys through his writings and pictures.  He's one of those guys that you feel like you know him, even though you have never met.  It is my pleasure to have an amazing post today from "the family fly guy", Brian Bradfield.  Thanks, Brian!!

FLY FISHING WITH KIDS

By Brian Bradfield



Here is Ethan with a 4th lake Rock bass caught on the fly

Fly fishing with kids can be a chore. Sure there are plenty of beautiful photos of parents taking their kids out fishing or of their child holding their first fish while smiling ear to ear. But let’s be honest here…there is a lot of work that goes into making each trip a success, especially when you take more than one of them out for an afternoon of fishing.



Ethan hold his first ever solo caught brown trout on the fly!



There are snacks to pack, extra clothes for when they fall in, sweatshirts, backpacks to put it all in, sunscreen, a back-up plan to devise just in case the fishing is poor, etc, etc. The list goes on and on. And that can and will change as they get older. In fact, I used to carry extra diapers when they were still in pull ups.







Jonathan holds one of many tributary trout we caught

 on this spring day, with Ethan looking on.



But now that my kids are six, eight, and ten years old, they can go find a spot back in the brush and take care of business all by themselves. Which reminds me - Make sure to know your local flora. Poison ivy and kids don’t mix!!!!!




 



Jonathan with a rather large
 pond caught blue gill



There are other dangers as well. Try to navigate in and around three kids all casting flies at the same time, and you will soon realize how important it is to separate them by at least three rod lengths, or more. Even a thorough and highly entertaining lecture on safety from Dad won’t and can’t change the overwhelming enthusiasm kids will feel when you put a fly rod in their hand. Creating distance is important!

 

Jonathan holds a very nice lake run

 brown we took last year

This brings me to the actual “fishing with kids” part of this blog. I began taking my kids with me when they were very young. Sometimes I would take just one, sometimes all three. In those first years I had a kid carrier that I would put them in up until they pushed the 35-40lb. weight limit (I’m very glad those days are over with.) I also chose spots that I could wade safely with a kid on my back and yet still catch a few fish.



Katie with a late spring smallmouth bass
 taken on a woolly bugger!



As they got older I began to set them up with their own rod, and fish with them. We would fish local ponds and other small creeks that hosted tons of easy to catch warm water fish like smallmouth and largemouth bass, bluegill, sunfish, rock bass. These are fish that don’t require precision drifts or perfect casts, Ideal for young kids to cut their teeth on.

Katie and I went fishing on a cold

 February day on one of

 Lake Ontario's WNY tributaries....

this is just one of the brown trout

we caught on that day.

As their skills improved I began to take them to spots that Dad likes to fish, spots that did require more attention to detail, spots that were challenging, spots that didn’t give up their fish so easily, spots that they saw Dad holding a big fish. This is when frustration would set in and they would always want to go home within the first half hour of not getting any bites. So we would work together to get our fish. I would guide their hand as they made a drift, or hook a fish and let them reel it in. The point was that we were figuring out this challenge together. And that made all the difference!

They can all catch their own fish now, although they have yet to master the tougher places, like a local spring creek or Lake Ontario tributaries. But my oldest son Jonathan is well on his way! He can now dead drift a nymph at our local trout stream and pick up a few fish before I can have everyone else set up. 

Here, Jonathan fishes a fall down where we hooked a large female lake run brown trout, but couldn't seal the deal.

We enjoy tying flies at the kitchen table from time to time. And let me tell you my eight year old Katie is the best fly tier out of all of them!

 



My youngest son Ethan may be the best caster out of the three of them. He can roll cast like a champ. Maybe I should introduce him to the switch rod? 

Here is Ethan getting ready to release a wild WNY small stream brown trout...









Sunday Tippet ~ Like I said, it’s a chore. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. Besides I’m still looking to add too my collection of photos with kids smiling while holding a fish.

On a recent tributary fly fishing trip,

 Ethan found the snake,

 Jonathan caught the snake,

and Katie holds the snake before its release!

RD:   When there is a little work involved in something...you usually find out that it is worth doing.  Satisfaction comes from going the extra mile and seeing a smile on a child's face from your efforts makes it all the better.  Not to mention the lifetime memories that your children will have...

And for holding this snake...Katie gets the "Pink Hat" award for finding an "adventure in every riffle"!!  She is definitely a Lil' River Damsel... =)  We have a thing for other little critters around here...

Be sure to check out Brianontheflydotblogspotdotcom...



AWAKE ~ By Sean Sanders

My guest writer, Sean Sanders, lives and fishes in the Front Range of Colorado, trying to find balance between life as a husband, caregiver to two crazy bulldogs, and the daily grind of selling stuff. And while not on the water, he is busy trying to justify his fly fishing obsession on his blog Up the Poudre (www.upthepoudre.com).  I had the pleasure of meeting and fishing with him during last year's Rocky Mtn. Frenzy... Now, he shares with us, yet another awesome read... enjoy.






Awake

We dream in colors, seeing things in distorted truths, breaking open a world of which we experience in flashes, waiting only for the buzzer to pull us back into a mundane reality. Like clouds rolling in and out of frame, time lapsed for the impatient, with forcing storms bringing rain and life to landscape. The summer blurred in ashen smoke, a canyon closed, and with one strike, the river turned black.

Awake.

The cheap coffee from Ted’s Place burned a sad reminder that I had left a full pot of black at home and unattended. The bulldog’s are assuredly pacing anxiously. Yellow lines blinked intermittently, cautioning, as I entered the canyon for the first time in months. Three fly rods for the day trip, nervous I wouldn’t recognize a vein I’ve traced more times than I’m allowed to admit. Recovering, I return.

Mishawaka survived. Twenty four hour watches pushed back flames for days. The cross in the hill remains. Divine intervention? Maybe. Hard work and luck? More likely. I picked up the empty styrofoam coffee cup as the tunnel spit me further up the hill. I don’t remember reading the sign that begs, “No Diving”.

Hills charred on hot wind and drought, as “High Park” fought 86,000 acres in no particular order. Scars cut through forest, cleaning deadfall as fuel. Taking on directional gusts, the fire left its mark. Reminding us on banks and empty hills which once lived proud. A clean slate planted, as beetle kill still dots unburned reserves in Roosevelt National Forest.

Neighbors left standing to lend a hand to what remained, filling trucks and trailers with the belongings of others, and displaced animals that can’t speak for what they saw. The march is on, the faint drum beat echoing throughout a war torn canyon.

The last donut was eaten, as I hit seek on the radio dial, trying to receive confirmation of an outside world. While the hum of four cylinders broke the emptiness, two lanes together drove me forward, as water poured clear from unaffected headwaters south and west.

Campgrounds devoid of human activity welcome with open gates, eagerly awaiting the return of charcoal smoke from familiar summers. Ghosts of laughing kids skip rocks at turnouts, adults throwing tennis balls to unbridled labs. While the blue and yellow rafts sit idle in parking lots thirty miles below. White bellies of trout flushed, have left fortunate souls to reclaim water for themselves. As the guided sports fish somewhere pure, on water less stained in mind. A depressed gas pedal pushes onward.

Hooking the clip of the gravel guard to the bottom lace of my boots, the four weight accompanied me down to the river. The oversized net secured tightly between my pack and back, my sleeves were rolled up. Business like.

A rock I knew well broke the surface taller than I remember, the water level is low. A small caddis floated drunkenly, as a gulp from the far bank sent sound waves rippling from the source. Midges accompanied, and the electric buzz of grasshoppers crackled. I looked down at the size 20 baetis and clipped it off, unzipping the pack, the plastic box revealed a match that wouldn’t matter.

I shook the hopper out of the grass, and watched the small midge slide out behind. A nose broke the surface uninterested. Passing. This new river alive. Recalibrating. Showing its cards one at a time. Healing.

The fly box opened, as I found the small emerger. An olive and brown imitation, flashed wing case and all. The midge slid back into its slot, inactive. No weight behind foam, the emerging mayfly trailed unburdened. Free to float or sink, diving in, two flies at a time.

An alarm sounded somewhere in the distance. Growing in intensity, two eyes opened to the blinking digital numbers that read 5:58. Hitting snooze, I tried to remember the last cast and if something took. But it’s too late to go back.

*The High Park fire made national news this summer. The Cache La Poudre was in its crosshairs, and has paid a price for being in its path. But as with anything, time heals. New growth in the canyon is proof that mother nature has a plan. The trout fishing is slow in the burn area, which is to be expected, but there are fish to be had, and that makes me happy.

Sanders



Sean in the Poudre. 2011 Rocky Mtn. Frenzy...
Hoping to see it this way again one day...