Great Moments in Literary History #24: On this date in 1951, Ernest Hemingway caught a small trout and decided to not write about it.
(That, of course, is a marlin)
Great Moments in Literary History #24: On this date in 1951, Ernest Hemingway caught a small trout and decided to not write about it.
(That, of course, is a marlin)
As a younger man, my boating experience consisted mostly of drinking beer on the pontoon boats of others. I went bass fishing with an uncle once (Caught my first bass, too. Thanks, Uncle Dwight!) but I was 10, so what did I know about boating — other than we went really fast? There was also a long-ago week on sailboats in the Caribbean but it was still more or less me drinking beer on someone else’s boat. And a lot of rum, too. I think. I can’t really remember, but that’s not the point.
Boating is just not something I grew up with. Knowing better than to fib about such a thing, I was completely honest regarding my lack of boating experience once, during an interview for a job that required quite a bit of boat work, and still got the job. I hauled people and gear, fuel oil, tractor parts and even sheep, to and from an island on Lake Champlain for a time and didn’t make the evening news so, while I may not be the most seasoned of skippers, I do have tales to tell and slightly more than a passing knowledge of boating safety.
If that is not enough to convince you of my experience with today’s topic, I currently oversee a small fleet of wooden craft resembling rowboats in that they have oars and are roughly triangular in shape. Continue reading
In last week’s Friday Fish Sticks feature at OwlJones.com, Owl posted a link to a video of a robotic fish and speculated about the potential of expensive, robotic lures. I’m sure there are self-propelled lures out there and I have no doubt that, with the advances in polymers and nano-technology, it won’t be long before we can get rid of all our complicated gear and use tiny cameras to guide a lure into the mouth of a fish, flip a switch and command a tiny motor to tow our quarry to shore for us.
The thought of robotic lures made me laugh (and shudder a bit) but those who pursue fish have always found ways to put new technologies to use. Inspired by Owl’s $57.00 robotic Rapala, I share a few ads I came across while putting together this week’s edition of Flashback Friday:
There are a lot of ways to land a fish but I think most people would agree that, for most of the fish they are likely to encounter, using a net is best.
Priced a decent bamboo rod lately? Old or new, it’s enough to put some people on the verge of apoplexy. Gardeners dream of warmer weather while browsing seed catalogs; some of us dream while browsing other stuff. As you plan your fly fishing purchases for 2011, think of this: Continue reading
John Voelker (pen name Robert Traver) wrote his “Testament of a Fisherman” in 1964. The world has changed quite a bit in 47 years and so have anglers (a more up to date, gender-neutral term). I am not yet an old codger, pining away for the good old days (more like a middle-aged long-hair with an appreciation for fine fire-water and bamboo rods), but I think it would be interesting to take Traver’s words from nearly a half-century ago and see how they stand up to the world we live in today.
Sometimes it’s not what you say …
… it’s how you say it.
The sign at Singleton’s Store in Proctorsville means the same thing no matter how you say it.
The end of the season is nigh, here at Fish and a Barrel Pond, but it ain’t over yet and I should have known better than to write like it was as I did a couple of weeks ago when I got all sentimental and gooey in my post “Mostly Photos, from Somewhere in Vermont“. A string of sunny days full of blue skies and brook trout interspersed with starry nights scented of bourbon and wood smoke can do that to a guy.
It’s been almost six months since the 2010 fishing season began for the members of the Neverwas Nonesuch Angling Society and it was nice to spend another Saturday night by the fire, sipping toddies and swapping stories with a swell bunch of fellows but on Sunday afternoon, as I stood in the road waving good-bye, a chill, northern breeze boxed my ears and tossed my hat in the ditch, reminding me it is the end of their season, not mine.
All week long that breeze blew. It took the sunshine away, replacing it with steady rain, and by Thursday afternoon the breeze was a flag-shredding gale and, after a brief lull, the rain became sleet.
You pay your money and you take your chances when you come to Fish in a Barrel Pond, especially in October. Some folks, with little apparent effort, have a fine time no matter the conditions, while others don’t try at all and are miserable, rain or shine. Continue reading
Search the internet and you will find plenty of fly fishing experts, willing and able to befuddle you beyond all reason with their grasp of the sport. I am not one of them.
I do like to touch upon important aspects of fly fishing from time to time, though, as I did with “Fishing Hurts,” where I discuss the back cast, and with “Teach a Man to Fish,” where I discuss delicate presentations and sportsmanship in general. I am able to observe a lot of fishermen, both on the water and off, and over the years I have reached some very important conclusions regarding this peaceful pastime and its practitioners. One of those conclusions — painful as it is to admit — is that a six-year-old with a $20.00 Spiderman fishing pole and a tub of worms can catch more fish than a 50-year-old with a $600.00 fly fishing rig.
There, I said it. I am also nearly certain that a pink marshmallow will attract more trout than a Royal Wulff and corn will generally outperform the most intricate woven-body nymph. Continue reading
With a fairly steady stream of anglers plying the waters of Fish in a Barrel Pond I find flies everywhere. I pick them up and if they are intact I add them to my boxes. If not, I keep them anyway. Mangled and broken, tattered and frayed, shredded and unwound, dropped, stepped on and left behind, it sometimes seems that I accumulate as many un-fishable flies as good ones. I find them in boats, on the ground in the parking lot and stuck in the nap of rugs at the doors of the camps. No fly lasts forever.
Most people wouldn’t give these worthless bits of feather, hair and thread a second look but I just can’t throw them away or leave them behind, rusting away to nothing.