What Once Was

We headed up there on Friday afternoon in different vehicles at different times from different places.  Each in his own excitement of the possibility of freedom from the common days of work and sleep and work again. Not that life is bad, mind you, but it is on no level similar to standing in a stream with a fly rod in one hand and a bottle in your wader pocket.  A smile from a friend waits around every bend and riffle.  The hope inside that this friend will be "on a fish" rises higher than the hope for weight in my own net.  My methodical fishing routine aside, it is the only "real world" concern that I have.  Hell, I already know that the beer is cold. Under the bridge, on the narrow bank in the purple dawn, is more muffled laughter of another duo of tired fishing partners.  Probably laughing at me but, hey, I'm sure I deserve it.  I've sworn at this tippet out loud at least a dozen times by now.  It is rather funny.  The cook is in the cabin preparing a heartwarming meal that is only fit for a crowd like us.  We eat together, drink together, fish together.  There are many hours of this for the first 24 and little time to sleep.  The only thing that wanes us off the fly are the showers that arrive late Saturday evening.  As I write, I can still hear the short propeller "ffffffffffttttttttttttt" of the dealer's cards readying another hand as the rain swamps down on the covered deck.  Even this is okay.  It's all okay up here.  The fish are a bonus.  Just a bonus to all of this.  The tunes sound tinny in the background of the room. I can still hear that too.

My fishing report will be brief.  I did well.  Not so well as to fool anyone into calling me a serious angler but well enough to note the difference that a season of reading and asking questions and, well, fishing has made. The hot ticket was nymphs in the morning, caddis in the evening, and streamers after dark and before dawn. The mid day fishing was the toughest and made for easy choices of chicken wings and Roscoe Beer for lunch at a local establishment.  A trip to the Roscoe Brewery made a good excuse for further resolve that the fishing was too tough in the gin clear and sun soaked waters of the Willowemoc.  

On Sunday morning I lost a fish.  A giant.  A reason to go back and get it right.  The rivers now run lower and colder. The light, as it fades with the clarity and crispness of autumn, takes with it a season of fishing and memories of laughter and lessons learned.  The hardest of those lessons is of what once was that can no longer be.  A lost treasure?  Perhaps.  My first full season of fly fishing, from April to October, and all that came with it, has passed as swiftly as the stream takes food over foam bubbles where trout lay waiting underneath.  

I wish more weight in your nets than mine.  Tight lines.

Mike

  

Refusal

The tinny sound of the local A.M. sports talk radio clashed with the calm of the morning as the tarnished Nissan bolted up the Saw Mill River Parkway.  With a sip of my coffee and a twist of the knob all was quiet again.  The sun cast it's first light of pink haze under the soft belly of the bulbous clouds.  The Train station platforms that could be spotted along the way through the fading green leaves of the roadside were strewn with ties and stiff collars.  Those suckers were not as fortunate as I.  Good for me.  After all, someones got to be "gone fishin".

The stream was empty but for one car whose inhabitant I never did see.  Another fortunate soul who was able to find some solitude.  As for me, I'd have plenty of company.  Just not sure if they knew I was invited.

The air was crisp and clean.  The water ran clear.  It was one of those outings where the comfort of a well worn flannel under the vest made for a good choice.  Fall fishing is here.

I decided to fish the old rod this morning as I hadn't since back in June or early July.  Each time I've fished in recent months I've felt a little badly for the old guy.  He just sits there curiously peering at me while I string up the new rod which I methodically take out of it's well groomed case and delicately slot the four pieces together like I'm handling fine art.  I never treated the two piece this way.  Honestly he just bangs around the trunk of the maroon shitbox, still strewn with a leader and fly 90 percent of the time, placed only carefully enough to survive.  He's a "grab 'n go" type of guy and today felt like that kind of day.

I figured I'd start in the "Bathtub" as it usually has an angler or two in it and I haven't fished it in a while.  It proved to be a good choice and, to my surprise, there were consistent rises and swirls all around me fairly soon.  It didn't take long for me to notice the Caddis flies lofting about and I was enamored at the prospect of fishing the dry fly.  The flies were mostly tiny but now and then I'd see a nice sized bug twittering off of the water.  I tied on a size 16 or so and had immediate attention.  I must admit that this was the kind of attention that an eight year old kid gives Lima beans.  They are there on his plate.  He sniffs them, pokes them, might even touch one to his tongue, but he is not going to eat it.  Fair enough, I thought.  Perhaps it is my presentation.  A handful of refusals later and I lengthen the leader.  Tied on another three feet of 6x tippet and put the 16 back on.  Same result.  I cut it off and put a size 18 on, although it was a little paler than that of the Elk Hair tan color.  Again, Lima beans.  Shoot.  I clipped the wings back a bit, shorten the hairs.  That ought to do it.  At this point I am seeing flashes of gold five feet in front of me in the perfect current between the seams.  The fish are active.  There are three fish that I am consistently casting to who rise every minute or so in the same spot who have been sniffing and whiffing at my every offering.  The one closest to me I believe to be a Rainbow.  The others seem to be larger Browns.  I am consumed by this game.  I'm at the party, folks, but no one is letting me in the door.

I look back in the small fly box.  It is there and it has been there since I began this lunacy of changing flies to refusals (there were a couple sizes of Blue Winged Olives that I tried as well with similar results).  The beauty of it is that it is a size 20 Elk Hair Caddis.  This is what they are feasting on.  The shame of it is that I only have one and it is no less than twenty five years old.  The hook is rusty, the eye is rusty, and it is the only thing that will get this damn kid to eat his veggies.  I tie a clinch knot and it snaps.  Once.  Twice.  Three times.  The eye of the hook must be jagged.  I swear a few times.  I try to clean it, smooth it.  I tie again.  It's on.  It ain't pretty but it's on.  If a fish takes it, it most likely will not hold.  My day will be over.

I false cast three or four times to present this rusted artifact to the closest trout, the Bow.  The fish that seems to have given me the "fin" more than the others.  I need the perfect drift.  I hold my breath.  He inspects. Wham!  Fish on!

...

Fish off.  Fly gone.

That's about how that went.

The bad news is that I didn't take the fish.

Good news is that I knew what they wanted and, after some time, figured out how to join the party.

That, and I wasn't standing on a train platform.

Happy fall fishing to all and tight lines.

Mike

Trout Bum

Iv'e been reading a lot of John Gierach this summer and, most recently, his 1986 offering, "Trout Bum."  What I enjoy most about reading his books is that he really does put you on the water with him, has you sipping his camp coffee or looking forward to a beer.  He's got a way of making you feel like you are standing in between he and A.K. Best, just looking down quietly at the dirt on your wading boots in the dusky light of another successful fishing day.

I've read quite a few of Gierach's books.  He was the only connection to fly fishing that I had for all of those years that the zippers of the old vest stayed closed and the fly line dried out.  He always kept me one step away from being stream side in my mind.  Now that I am fishing and fishing quite a bit (at least my wife thinks so), reading his work makes me feel like a full on "Trout Bum" myself.  I'm waist deep either literally or in my mind.  

I fished just a couple of mornings ago.  Headed up to the EBCR with a much less desirable cup of joe than would have suited John.  I noticed a funny thing as I geared up, strolled streamside, checked out the water, strolled some more and, eventually fished.  All of my inner thoughts about flow, clarity, fly choice, seams, runs, pools, flats, all of it was no longer in my own voice but the voice of a late 60's, white bearded, calm but red tempered fly fisherman.  Strange, I know.  But true enough indeed.  I had been reading too much and not fishing enough.  Hey, I'll take what I can get.

The first couple hours I was fishing in the Bathtub and, even though the fish weren't really rising, there were enough of them to try and take one on a dry.  I tied on a small white sulphur, then a caddis, then a blue winged olive, all to no avail.  I didn't mind so much but after an hour or two one does start to concede to the skunk.  Thoughts of "not knowing what the hell I am doing" in an old man's voice are much more comforting than the same thoughts in my own voice.  Really it might have been a blend of the two voices.  At least I hope so or, not only am I crazy but I am telling you all that I am crazy.  Oh well, I've been called worse. 

With not so much as a look from a trout I decided to head downstream and fish a favorite run of mine (and everyone else's for that matter).  I changed over to a double nymph rig.  I like fishing nymphs, I do.  But then there's been this whole season in which I have never really fished a hatch or a successful dry fly so it is a bit disheartening to tie up the heavy rig.  

When you are in the midst of going 0 for whatever in a ballgame you start to get the feeling that you just never might reach base safely again.  An actor who wraps a film or draws a curtain on a play feels as though they have just finished their last job, never to be hired again.  A fly fisherman who hasn't had a take in the last two hours is convinced that he has caught his last trout.  This is where my head was.  Just lazily flipping the nymph rig over while watching the gentleman downstream of me presenting the most beautiful roll cast of a tiny dry fly.  What a cast.  He knows what the hell he's doing.  Why am I even??---BOOM.  The indicator went stiff and straight down in a frenzy.  Fish on.  Boy what a great call it was to nymph.  I am one helluva fisherman.  Smart cookie.  The trout fights well and long; running to me, away from me, in the current, out of the current.  I realize I'm holding my breath.  The professional roll caster, in a respectful manner, pretends not to watch but I know I've got an audience.  The trout is close to the net but not close enough.  A beautifully fit and chrome Rainbow.  I just can't seem to get to him.  This extra 6 inches on the new rod now seems like a mile.  I'm down on one knee.  The fish is wallowing but hard and he's four feet from me in the shallows and a sound unleashes not unlike a bullwhip as the line snaps free from the trout.  He's off.  Damn.  I let out a decent "Aargh" and the dry caster responds, "That was a nice one...did he take your fly?"  I couldn't believe he hadn't.  The whole rig was intact.  The whip sound was something I had never heard in real life or in a Gierach story.  I wanted to ask the caster if he had heard it too but he must have and I was too deflated to talk much.  A few minutes goes by and I'm flipping those nymphs over again and he calls over, "Man that sucks.  That was a nice fish."  I respond that I'm still torn about it and he promises to drop it in an "I feel your pain, man" tone of voice.  This is a good guy.

So good that about ten minutes later when I hooked and started to battle another gem, he was there on the banks behind me.  I had thought he had gone but I guess he was just tying up back there.  "If you need any help let me know."  A kind offer.  I did need help.  I wanted to ask him to net this trout for me but I couldn't.  I needed to land this damn fish and save face.  Geirach wouldn't have A.K. babysitting for him!  After an admirable fight, I was able to land the fish.

My newly found friend was kind enough to take a photo of me with the second rainbow.  I don't believe it to be as big as the first but such is the fodder of a good fish story.  

We parted ways soon after and another fisherman came to the hole that we had been sharing.  As it turns out, I knew the guy from over at the Westchester Fishing Forums.  We BS'd for a while as I pondered calling it a day and he mentioned driving down to a stretch that I have only fished once before.  I called my wife who didn't answer so that was an indication to me to fish for another hour or so.  Thanks, honey.  We talked about where to park down there and split ways.  He had to get gas and I had to get going.  We never did meet up down there and I'm not sure he ever made it.  This is a working man's fly fisherman.  Solid guy.  Kind too and gave me a Prince Nymph after I had told him my woes of losing two that morning.

I fished this new run and will say that it is tricky water but, for a Sunday, it was desolate.  Not a soul.  That's already a plus.  I stared at this water for a while, walked the trail upstream and then back down.  There's everything here.  Flats, eddys, deep pools, plunge pools, riffles, etc. and there's even a stretch where the "all of the above" bubble would be filled in if this were a Scan-tron test (boy, I hated those).  

I picked my spot after a careful study and netted two smaller and wild fighting Browns.  These two fish might have come as even more of a surprise than did the Bow.  To fish new water and find success had the old man in my head calling me a legitimate "Trout Bum".

If only that were true.  As it is, I am already disqualified from that title as I had recently purchased a $19 hat from Orivs with a mesh backing and the words "Trout Bum" printed on the front.  Gierach nor A.K. nor the fantasy of myself, standing between them at dusk, would ever don such an article.

This is 40

Yesterday, I turned 40.  This is no great feat, mind you, as it is inevitably what comes after 39 and all the rest.  Still I can't help but say to myself in quiet moments, "Wow.  I made it."  Whatever the hell that means.

My wife, amazing as she is, threw me a surprise party a couple of Saturdays ago in which about 100 of my closest friends and family attended.  There was a band and bbq food and booze and cigars and a whole lot of laughter and love.  A whole lot.  So began the celebration coupled with a lot of reflection.  "Wow.  I made it."

I've never been much for new things.  I don't know if this is a by-product of being one of nine children (number 8 to be exact) or if I'm just not all too amused by shiny, out of the package...stuff.  Might be a bit of both.  As you know if you've read this blog before, I have been using my late father's (can one still use the term "late" if the person they are referring to is gone well over 20 years? How about very late?) fly fishing setups since he passed.  The waders have leaks in more places than did the Nixon administration and the 5 weight rod is just about finished.  It's not yet, but just about.  So, a party, some friends and family, and a whole lot of Orvis gift cards.  Who am I kidding?  I love shiny new stuff.  

I am so happy to report that I have, thanks to said friends and family, acquired a whole new outfit for the fly side of this little fishing hobby of mine.  I went down to Orvis yesterday and picked up a nine foot, five weight, mid flex Access fly fishing rod coupled with the Access mid-arbor reel with backing and line and all of the fine fixins.  I also acquired Orvis' new line of waders called the Silver Sonic Waders.  Talk about snazzy.  The name says it all.  Not only do they keep you dry but you can hover over the water in them by pressing a button on the suspenders that vents a force field of air through the sole of the boots.  Not really.  But the name sure sounds like they would.

Not only did I attain this fantastic new gear, I actually got to use it today. 

It was a fine day on the East Branch of the Croton River.  I spent quite a bit of time there this afternoon and into the evening.  I fished nymphs and dries, emergers and streamers.  I even had a bit of luck.  The new rod yielded me a nice 12 inch Brown within the first five minutes of my arrival.  Soon after I hooked and lost another decent fish.  Upon moving downstream, I decided to "play" with the small Bluegills for a good half an hour as they were having fun pretending to be trout while rising to my Elk Hair Caddis fly.  At one point I had the dry caddis on and fished two dropper nymphs below that.  A Prince Nymph and a tiny Hare's Ear.  Oddly enough I managed a trout on all three of these flies within the next hour.  I lost a solid 14 inch or so Rainbow and then swiftly netted his little brother.  It was a day full of action and fun.  There was a nice break at Trestle Pool with two Captain Lawrence Pale Ales and a decent cigar while the sun sleeked its way through the solid green cloak of leaves.  "Wow, " I thought, "I made it."

Not that those who made it happen for me necessarily read this blog but I would like to say a heartfelt thanks to you all for sharing in the passage of another decade with me.  And thanks for my shiny new fantastic toys.

This is 40 and I like it very much.

Tight lines.

Mike   

Days Like These

I don't have many words to describe this morning's outing.  I was still coming off of a high of catching that gem of a Brown just a few days ago.  I kept promising myself that my next trip would be stream side with a beer and a fly rod for an evening hatch but the reservoir lured me once again.  "Didn't you like that Brown I rewarded you with?  How would you like to double that?"  Let's face it.  I couldn't resist.  I'm very good at keeping promises.  Just not to myself.  I am so grateful to have days like these...

Rivers and Reservoirs

I am a fortunate guy.

Within a twenty mile radius of my home I have what I consider to be world class fishing.  I can be at the fabled Kensico Reservoir (fabled due to it's damming of water up over the old town of Kensico back in 1915) within 5 minutes depending on the excitement in my legs as forced through the accelerator.  I can also be on a stream within twenty minutes should I use the same method of trumping the speed limit.  For the record, I rarely do but that's not to say I don't.

About a week or so ago, I stopped into the Bedford Sportsman (www.bedfordsportsman.com) and picked up a couple of leaders and replenished a couple of flies.  Early in the spring I had lost a monster on the East Branch of the Croton Reservoir on a nymph that looked like a cross between a Copper John and a Prince Nymph.  I lost two of those flies that day and had been thinking about them ever since.  We have had a tremendous amount of rain here in NY recently, so I figured it wouldn't hurt to arm myself with a couple of these unique bottom bouncers.  I had a small chance for another "Tweener" in which I had the occasion to cross Route 35 on my way back to work which, in turn, meant I had to cross the Amawalk River.  My car made a sharp left onto Wood Street and my waders and rod were in hand in what felt like seconds.  I had a half an hour and I made a b-line to a spot that I thought might produce in higher water.  It had produced for me before in the way of some small wild Brown Trout back in the spring.  I hoped for a repeat.

I did get a repeat in the "wild" department but not so much in the "small" department.  I fished a tight pocket and swung said nymph in front of a slab of boulder (I mean, I might have even bounced the damn thing off the rock and into the water) and just as it was about to hit a swirl into the next run, the indicator sucked down into the depths.  Fish on!  What came to hand after an awesome up-current battle was one of the most beautiful trout I have ever seen.  

This speckled sensation with it's golden hue put a big grin on my mug.  I released it safely as she darted off and I darted back up Wood Street and back to work with time to spare.  A rarity on so many levels.

With a fortunate thunderstorm on Monday evening, I woke Tuesday morning with a clear decision to fish the Kensico.  I say fortunate because anytime a fishing decision is made for me due to weather it is just that; fortunate.  Otherwise, I spend time on one body of water wondering how the other body of water is fishing.  A disease I know full well that I share with at least some of you.

My pursuit of a generous sized reservoir Brown Trout has been the fodder of many late night meanderings of the mind.  I have read, talked, asked, read some more, talked and asked some more about these elusive fish for more hours than I can equate.  Not to mention the time I have actually put in on my bony rearend on the seat of a jon boat.  That is not to say that I haven't enjoyed those hours.  I most certainly have.  I have even caught a bunch of fish in those hours...just not the spotted, big bellied beauties that I have seen and heard so much about.

Armed with Baitfeeder reels and a busted up old plastic bucket of Sawbellies, I hit the water at about 6:30 AM.  After hooking and releasing a smallish Laker, I decided that I would row about a half an hour away to a spot that always seems to produce for me and that I now know holds some Browns.  Well, you all know how those half an hour rows go, don't you?  Within the first five minutes the wind picked up and attempted to blow me back from whence I came.  Now I was born with an Irish temper and a bit of Italian stubbornness to boot.  Both of those wonderful genetic features kept me at it.  I'll be damned if I don't get there.

About forty five minutes to an hour later, I was precisely where I wanted to be.  The wind disappeared as if it were rewarding me for my efforts.  Nature, as you know, has a way of rewarding us at times.  This feature of the unknown temperaments of the Great Mother is another reason that we find ourselves doing what we do.  It adds a bit more glow to the rewards.

24' to be exact is where I dropped the Belly to.  I was fishing over water that was around 70 feet deep.  I had only one line out as I was replacing the leader on the other line from the Lake Trout who had compromised it's integrity.  I was deep in thought regarding the placement of the downed Belly, what to do and what depth to fish the next line once I re-rigged it, how will the wind behave if...wait a second...a slow tic, tic, tic of the baitfeeder.  Freeze.  Quiet.  Shhhh...tic, tic, tic again.  Now slowly it peels and stops.  Don't touch it.  Shut up, Mike, it's not a Brown....or is it?  Slowly, another peeling of the line.  I wonder if the fish knows it's me up here in this stupid tin boat...peel, peel, peel.  Stop.  Wait.  Nothing.  Shit.  Gone.

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!   There she goes!  Pick up the rod, dummy!!

FISH ON!!!

After all the tell tale takes and all of the running "side to side" as all the great fisherman I know have foretold, she flashed a beautiful streak about fifteen feet down and I knew she was what I had hoped for.  I got her close, maybe five feet down and ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! this time on the first drag system.  Boy, did she dive down.  Now she's turning the boat!  How big is this thing??  Up again and shaking her head...diving down again.  Can I breath yet??  

Finally, after the longest five minutes of my life, she was in the boat.  If the stream trout made me grin then this thing made me smile like a big dopey puppy.  I let out a "YEEHOOOOO!" or three as loud as one might imagine but probably louder than that.  And then I let out a couple more as I gave thanks for the catch.

This trout, mind you, is by no means a monster but she is my monster at the moment.  I have fished for most of my life with times of many years between trips and times of exciting fishing and plenty of skunks.  

This is my most exciting catch.  My "fish of a lifetime".

Until the next one.  Boy, I'll tell you...these rivers and reservoirs...

I am a fortunate guy.

  

Two Mikes...

The alarm blipped at 4 a.m. this past Saturday and I was happy to hear it sing.  I rose and left the house quietly as to not wake the three pre-teen girls who slept in the living room as a post birthday party celebration of my daughter's 10th.  They had been fairly loud the evening and into the depth of the night before so I am going to estimate that I had gotten, at most, 3 hours of shuteye.  I wasn't bothered much by this as I was headed out to fish with a friend that I've been acquainted with for some time but whom I've never had the opportunity to fish with.  In fact, we had never met in person.  I should also note that he is a hell of a fisherman.  Now being a "hell of a fisherman" is by no means a prerequisite for me to want to fish with someone but it certainly doesn't hurt things.  I was looking forward to it to say the least.

After I had slurped down a cup of Mobil's finest sludge and a granola bar, I met Mike on the reservoir at about 5.  The sun was still just barely out of hibernation as we loaded a dry land bobsled of sorts of my partners finest gear; a few 10 and 12 foot noodle rods with bait feeder reels attached, a couple of jigging outfits for Lake trout and a curious collection of lead core setups.  The loading of the gear was coupled with pleasant conversation but I knew that I was now a part of a tactical operation.  We were catching fish.

We decided to row for a bit to an area that both of us had previous success at.  Once we were satisfied with our location, we dropped a couple of sawbellies down.  We chatted about our families and shared some pictures of them on the cell phones.  A warmth appeared in the boatman's words when he spoke of his.  I appreciated that.  So often when men talk about marriage and raising kids with each other there are too many of a couple of things; complaints or bad jokes.  With Mike, I got neither.  I got the sense that this guy was a hell of a husband and father.  Again, not a prerequisite but it don't hurt.

Bang, the first hit came and it came on hard.  The baitfeeder ripped and Mike asked me to handle it.  We both hoped for a Brown.  I wasn't sure.  It bounced down a few times on the run and then raked sideways just like the finicky speckled Trout.  After a short battle and a long hold of my breath it was a nice fat...Small Mouth Bass.  Ok, I thought, I'll take it to wash off the skunk from the last two outings.  We both agreed it was a good omen that a fish was on within minutes of dropping.

Boom, another hit, another Bass.  And again soon after.  That was three Smallies in a row.

You've got to handle the next hit, I told him.  Enough is enough.

It should be understood that Mike is somewhat of a Brown Trout magnet these past couple of seasons.  Don't get me wrong, he works his tail off for his success and has his butt on a boat seat for more hours than you and I combined but the man can catch some Trout.  He is very humble about his success and I give him a lot of credit for that.  I'd be writing books. (Says the guy who writes lengthy blog posts about NOT catching fish!)

It surprised me to learn that with all of my cohorts success, he has yet to net a Brown out of Kensico.  Mike has a few boats on a few different reservoirs and Kensico is a good 45 minute trek for him so I believe it to be his least fished body of water.

Anyhow, after asking him to handle the next hit, he did.  And he boated his first Brown Trout.  Now, I don't call myself a mathematician but if we got 4 hits and 4 fish and I took three Bass out of the four hits into the boat and Mike took the Brown, wouldn't that equate to me being a lousy Trout fisherman?   But I digress...

Soon after, I hit a nice Laker on the jig which, in itself, is bounds of fun.  We would mark a fish at a certain depth and then send the jig down while we watched it on the fish finder.  Right at the same depth we'd close the bail and start the jig.  Bounce, bounce, reel.  Bounce, bounce, reel.  WHAM!  It was both invigorating and hilarious at once.  Two grown men giggling like the girls at the previous nights slumber party as we watched and waited while the Trout played cat and mouse with the jigs.  This is an exciting way to fish, folks.  You need to get out there and do it.  You won't be disappointed.  At one point I was awarded the assist for jigging a Laker off of a 90 foot floor as I got him to chase the jig up to 20 feet where it found Mike's bait hanging on the bait feeder.  He nailed it from there and we giggled some more.

For the last leg of our morning trip we decided to pull up the bait and focus on the jigging.  While singing some "Travelling Wilbury" tunes, we each boated a few more Lake Trout and I decided to keep one for the table which I ate for a late night Father's Day dinner.  We never did get to the lead core setups so my curiosity will have to hold for now...

In the end the "Two Mikes" didn't catch any monsters out there but we did manage a heck of a lot of action.  I will say that I had a great day of fishing with a new friend who I admire for more reasons than just being a hell of a fisherman.  But let's face it folks, that certainly doesn't hurt things.

And, if you care to know, I had an amazing Father's Day...

I hope you all did as well...

Tight lines,

Mike