Cold and Snow and I’m too Cold to fish

Winterizing your fly fishing equipment is an essential step to ensure it’s in top condition when the next season rolls around. Here’s a guide to help you properly maintain and store your gear:

1. Clean Your Rod and Reel

• Rod: Gently wipe down your rod with a damp cloth to remove any dirt, salt, or grime. Pay extra attention to the guides and reel seat.

• Reel: Remove the line and inspect the reel for any wear. Clean it with fresh water and mild soap, but be careful not to get water into the drag mechanism. Lubricate the reel’s moving parts with a light oil made for fishing reels.

2. Inspect and Maintain the Fly Line

• Clean your fly line with a line cleaning solution or a mild soap and water mixture. Rinse it thoroughly and then dry it completely.

• Inspect the line for nicks or damage. Consider replacing the backing if it shows wear.

• If possible, apply a silicone-based line dressing to maintain its suppleness and help prevent cracking.

3. Check Your Rod Guides

• Carefully inspect the guides for any cracks, chips, or other damage. Any rough spots could damage your line, so make sure the guides are smooth.

• If you find any issues, it may be a good time to repair or replace them.

4. Dry and Store Your Tackle Box

• Empty your tackle box of flies and other items, and wipe down the box. Make sure everything is dry to prevent mold or rust.

• For flies, check hooks for rust and toss out any that are damaged. You may want to add or reorganize your fly collection for the upcoming season.

5. Inspect Waders and Boots

• Check your waders for leaks by inflating them with air (using a hairdryer or vacuum cleaner on a low setting) and submerging them in water to look for bubbles.

• If your boots are muddy, clean them thoroughly, and inspect for any wear, especially on the soles.

• Store your waders in a cool, dry place, away from direct sunlight.

6. Store Your Equipment Properly

• Keep rods stored in a protective tube or rod rack to prevent warping or damage.

• Store reels with the drag loosened to avoid unnecessary tension on the components.

• Keep all gear in a dry, temperature-controlled space to avoid corrosion or degradation of materials.

7. Repair Any Damaged Gear

• Use the off-season to repair or replace damaged gear. Whether it’s fixing broken rod guides, replacing worn-out lines, or tightening up reel components, addressing these issues now will save time when you’re eager to get back out on the water.

Winterizing your gear is an investment in the longevity of your equipment and ensures that you’re ready to hit the water when the season returns.

Waders and Safety

 Wading is both an essential skill and a critical safety practice for anyone exploring streams or fishing. The most important aspect of wading is to avoid drowning, which is why a wader belt and a wading staff are indispensable. A wader belt prevents water from filling your waders if you fall, while a staff provides stability on slippery or uneven surfaces. Hazards like unseen rocks, algae-covered bottoms, swift currents, and sudden drop-offs make wading inherently risky, so it’s crucial to approach it with care.

Walking should be a careful shuffle rather than deliberate steps, as shuffling keeps you balanced and helps avoid slipping. When crossing a stream, face upstream and move diagonally, shuffling slowly to maintain contact with the streambed. Swift, noisy movements can spook fish, as sound and motion travel far in water. Move softly and lightly, keeping your steps as silent as possible to blend into the environment. By staying mindful and deliberate, you can wade safely and preserve the tranquility of the water around you.

The Meaning of Christmas

 Tomorrow is a special day for Art, it's a time for family, grandchildren and special moments. Life is not about Fishing, how big a fish you caught, or the number of fish. No doubt fishing is both fun and challenging but life is more. Go find out what that more is!

Happy Holidays and tight lines!

Let's Put it Into Action

Once the rod, line, leader, and fly are perfectly matched, the next crucial step is mastering the presentation. Presentation is all about how the fly lands on the water and behaves in the current, mimicking natural prey. A proper presentation can mean the difference between a curious look and a solid strike.

Focus on achieving a natural drift, particularly with dry flies and nymphs, ensuring the fly moves naturally with the current. For streamers, work on imparting lifelike motion through stripping or swinging techniques. Pay attention to casting accuracy and delicacy, as well-placed, subtle casts minimize spooking fish and maximize your chances of a take. Adjust for factors like wind, water conditions, and the behavior of the fish you’re targeting to fine-tune your presentation.

Up next: locating the quarry and using stealth technics

Tight lines!

Fly Tying Must

Fly tying requires careful selection of the hook type, as it directly affects the function and presentation of the fly. Dry fly hooks are lightweight and made with thin wire to help the fly float, as a heavier hook would cause it to sink. Wet fly hooks, on the other hand, are made of heavier wire and are designed to sink beneath the surface, often with a shorter shank to imitate aquatic insects.

Streamer hooks are longer and sturdier, crafted with medium to heavy wire to handle the aggressive strikes of fish attacking baitfish imitations. Nymph hooks are similar to wet fly hooks but can vary in shape and weight to accommodate different nymph patterns, often with curved shanks for realistic profiles. Specialty hooks, like those for scuds, emergers, or jig-style flies, are tailored to specific patterns and fishing techniques.

Selecting the right hook ensures that the fly behaves and performs as intended in the water, enhancing its effectiveness for the target species.

Up next the presentation!

Lead the Way

In the world of fishing, where every cast is a small piece of art, there’s a hidden magic in the connection between the fly and the fly line. That connection—the leader—is often overlooked but essential, a quiet workhorse that bridges the angler’s intentions with the trout’s temptation.

Leaders come in many forms, but for those who appreciate the craft, there’s something special about the old-school, handmade varieties. Imagine a leader spun from tying thread, furled and knotted with care, a nod to the days when silk lines whispered across the water. These leaders aren’t just functional—they’re personal.

The furled leader, for example, has an elegance all its own. Twisted like a fine rope, it transfers energy smoothly from the cast to the fly, laying it down gently on the water’s surface. There’s no harsh slap, no clumsy splash—just a seamless presentation that makes even the most finicky trout take notice.

Tapered and knotted by hand, these leaders are a throwback to a slower time, when every piece of fishing gear bore the touch of human craftsmanship. Each knot and twist tells a story, each strand a connection not just to the fly, but to the angler who tied it and the traditions they’re keeping alive.

Modern leaders, with their monofilament precision and ease, have their place. But there’s a unique satisfaction in fishing with something you’ve made yourself—a furled leader crafted with tying thread, tying you not only to the fish but to a legacy of patience and skill. It’s more than a connection; it’s a thread through time, linking past to present, angler to water, and fly to fish.

Posted

 In a quiet Florida neighborhood, where twinkling Christmas lights wrapped palm trees and inflatable Santas basked in the warm December breeze, a battle was brewing. It all started with a simple sign posted near the community pond: “NO FISHING, NO TRESPASSING.” But to a group of teens, that sign was more like a dare.

Ignoring the rules, the teens ventured into the forbidden waters, rods in hand, eager to reel in the fish that practically jumped onto their hooks. “Why follow the rules when the fishing is this easy?” they laughed, hauling in catch after catch from a pond that hadn’t seen a lure in years.

The residents weren’t laughing. They’d seen enough. Confronting the teens, they chased them off the property, muttering about kids these days and the nerve of people who ignored clearly posted rules. One particularly annoyed resident even confiscated the teens’ bicycle as if to make a point.

But instead of teaching them a lesson, it only fired up the teens’ rebellious streak. They kept coming back, sneaking in under the cover of night. The pond, they figured, was a goldmine of untouched fish, and the rules? Well, the rules were someone else’s problem.

Unfortunately for the teens, the pond had rules for a reason. Beneath the surface lurked two very good enforcers: a massive alligator with a bad attitude and Benny, the brain-eating amoeba. Neither cared for fishing, especially when it involved rule-breaking.

One evening, as the teens cast their lines and laughed about dodging the residents again, the water rippled ominously. The gator surfaced, glaring at them with prehistoric menace. The teens froze. “Is… is that an alligator?” one whispered.

“It’s Florida, dude. Of course it is!”

With a mighty snap of its jaws, the gator made its position on the matter clear. The teens bolted, leaving their gear—and their dignity—behind.

You’d think that close encounter would’ve ended the story, but no. Nursing their bruised egos, the teens decided to strike back, this time targeting the residents’ beloved Christmas decorations. Inflatable Santas were deflated, candy canes toppled, and a light-up flamingo display met an untimely demise.

But revenge didn’t taste as sweet as fresh-caught fish, and the teens soon found themselves missing the thrill of their late-night fishing trips. Yet every time they thought about sneaking back, they remembered the gator and the stories of Benny floating silently in the water, waiting for its next victim.

In the end, the teens learned—albeit grudgingly—that some rules exist for good reason. The pond remained off-limits, the residents rebuilt their decorations, and the gator and Benny continued their quiet patrols, enforcing the law in their own special way.

And Now a Weighty Subject

Fly rods and lines are like dance partners—when they’re paired right, it’s poetry in motion. When they’re not, well, it’s like trying to tango in ski boots. Rods come in all shapes, sizes, and actions, from slow and noodly to fast and snappy. They’re made of materials like graphite (light and modern), fiberglass (classic and fun), and bamboo (elegant but pricey). But the real head-scratcher for beginners? Fly lines and their weights.

Here’s the deal: the weight of the line isn’t just a random number; it’s a code that tells you how big or small a fly it can chuck. A heavier line (say, a 10-weight) can lob a massive tarpon fly with authority. Meanwhile, a dainty 3-weight line is made for whispering tiny size 28 midges onto calm trout streams.

Don’t believe me? Try tying a tarpon fly to your 3-weight setup and see what happens. Spoiler: it’s not pretty. That poor rod will bend like a wet noodle, and your line will flop to the ground like a toddler trying to throw a basketball. Matching your rod, line, and fly size is the secret sauce to making the magic happen.

So, remember: a 10-weight is like a linebacker—it’s built for power. A 3-weight? Think ballerina—graceful and precise. Mix them up, and you’ll be in for an amusing, but unproductive, day on the water.

A Classic Fly and a Must Have in the Flybox

 The Frank Sawyer’s Pheasant Tail Nymph is one of those flies that perfectly embodies simplicity and functionality—a true classic in the fly-fishing world. Invented by Frank Sawyer, a legendary river keeper on England’s chalk streams, this nymph pattern was designed to be both easy to tie and incredibly effective.

Unlike most flies, it uses no tying thread. Instead, it’s crafted with just two materials: pheasant tail fibers and copper wire (or sometimes gold wire). The wire does double duty, serving as both the tying thread and the weighting material. This minimalist design is not just elegant but also practical, as it ensures the nymph sinks quickly to get down to feeding fish.

The beauty of the Pheasant Tail Nymph is in its versatility. It mimics a wide variety of aquatic insect larvae, making it a go-to pattern for trout in virtually any water. Whether you’re fishing a mayfly hatch or trying to imitate generic nymph forms, this fly does the job. Some anglers even substitute turkey tail fibers for pheasant tail in a pinch, which works surprisingly well.

Tying and fishing the Pheasant Tail Nymph feels like carrying on a piece of fly-fishing history. It’s a reminder that in a world of flashy, modern patterns, sometimes the simplest approach is still the most effective.

Summer Fishing Remembered

 A summer morning on the stream is a dance between serenity and frustration, a masterclass in patience, humility, and the occasional triumph. The air is cool, the water alive with promise, and the rising sun casts a soft glow over the scene. It’s the kind of setting that makes you feel like you’ve stepped into a postcard. Birds call softly from the trees, and dragonflies hover just above the surface, their reflections breaking against the ripples. For a moment, you breathe it in, feeling at one with the world.

Then you cast.

Your fly lands perfectly, gliding downstream with a grace even nature would applaud. A trout rises—a plump one, no less. It closes in, examining your fly as if deliberating over a five-course tasting menu. You hold your breath, ready for the take. But the fish drifts away, unimpressed. Another cast, another inspection, another rejection. Over and over, the trout rise and turn, as if they’re auditioning for the role of most selective fish ever.

You’d think the frustration would ruin the moment, but it doesn’t. In the zen of fly fishing, this is part of the lesson: the stillness of persistence, the art of the adjustment, the quiet joy of simply being there. You swap flies, adjust your presentation, even consider praying to the fishing gods. Nothing.

Then, nature steps in to teach you humility. A rogue ant or beetle tumbles from a branch above, hitting the water with a tiny plop. It drifts lazily on the surface, unassuming, not part of your meticulously crafted strategy. And before you can even register what’s happening, the trout rises. The water splits with a flash of silver, and the beetle is gone. Just like that, the moment you were chasing comes to life—not because of you, but despite you.

This is the zen of the summer morning on the stream: the realization that sometimes the best approach is to let go, to observe, and to understand that the stream has its own rhythm, its own secrets. Fly fishing isn’t about conquering the trout; it’s about joining the dance. With a smile, you tie on a terrestrial pattern and cast again, content not just with the catch, but with the chase itself.

What does Bears, Salmon and Elk have in Common?

 Ah, bears! The ultimate VIP guests at nature’s streamside buffet. Bears play a huge role in this story, especially when it comes to salmon. When salmon are making their epic upstream journeys to spawn, bears show up for an all-you-can-eat sushi night. But they’re not just gorging for themselves—they’re also nature’s best delivery drivers.

After munching on the best parts of the fish (usually the brains and eggs—apparently, bears have refined tastes), they drag the leftovers into the forest. Those scraps decompose and act like premium fertilizer for nearby plants, giving trees and shrubs a serious growth boost. This lush vegetation benefits herbivores like elk, providing better food and more cover for raising calves.

Now, if salmon can’t reach the upper stretches of streams, bears aren’t getting their usual feast, which means they aren’t spreading those nutrient-rich leftovers into the forest. Without bear-fertilized plants, elk have less food, and the whole system starts to unravel. Plus, hungry bears might wander farther in search of food, leading to more bear-human encounters (and fewer happy campers).

So, in short: no salmon, no bear buffet. No bear buffet, no fertilizer delivery. No fertilizer, no plants. And no plants? Bad news for elk and everyone else in the ecosystem. Salmon may be small, but their absence sends shockwaves all the way up to the biggest players in the forest—including those big, hungry bears.

Why and How Come?

Once upon a time, in a river that used to teem with the silvery flashes of native fish, a well-meaning but slightly shortsighted group of humans decided the water looked lonely. The original inhabitants—cutthroat trout, perhaps, or brook lamprey—had been battered by logging, mining, overfishing, or good old-fashioned pollution. Faced with the barren streams, someone said, “Let’s fix this!” And so they did… with a truckload of non-native trout.

The newcomers—rainbows, browns, maybe even a few splake for fun—were met with a mix of excitement and confusion. They took to their new home like frat boys at an all-you-can-eat buffet. These non-native trout, bred for hatchery life and endless buffet-style pellet feedings, suddenly found themselves in a wild stream with real food—bugs, minnows, even their smaller cousins. They adapted quickly, sometimes too quickly. The native species, already weakened, found themselves competing with these fast-growing, aggressive invaders for dwindling resources. In many cases, the invaders won.

For years, anglers rejoiced, casting flies to these non-native fish, some unaware—or unconcerned—that the rainbows weren’t supposed to be there in the first place. “A trout is a trout,” they said. “If it fights hard and looks pretty, who cares?” But beneath the surface, deeper questions swirled. Was replenishing a river with these interlopers really fixing the problem, or just creating new ones?

The lines between native, non-native, and invasive became murky. Rainbows and browns, both cherished by anglers, are technically non-native in many U.S. waters. Brook trout, considered native to the eastern United States, are invaders in the West, where they outcompete native cutthroats. Even within the realm of conservation, some folks started to argue that “native” was just a romantic notion. After all, ecosystems change. Couldn’t these introduced trout be considered a “replacement species” for what was lost?

But others pointed out the flaws in this thinking. Replacement species often disrupted the delicate balance of ecosystems, sometimes with devastating consequences. Non-native trout gobbled up amphibians, insects, and even baby fish that native predators depended on. Worse, they interbred with native trout, creating hybrids that blurred the genetic legacy of the original species. Imagine planting roses to replace a field of wildflowers—not because they belong there, but because they look nice. That’s what stocking non-native trout can feel like: a beautiful distraction from the loss of something irreplaceable.

In some places, the tide has begun to turn. Biologists and conservationists now work to restore streams to their original glory, not by overstocking but by reintroducing native species—if they can still find pure strains to work with. Where possible, they’ve removed dams, healed habitats, and let the rivers breathe again. But it’s a daunting task, one fraught with ethical questions. Should humans meddle further to fix problems they caused? Is it even possible to bring back what’s been lost?

The answer, as with most things in conservation, isn’t simple. Replacement species may provide fishing opportunities, but they can never truly replace the ecological role of a native species. Stocking trout might feel like putting a Band-Aid on a wound, but if the river’s core health isn’t addressed, it’s a temporary fix at best.

In the end, the story of overstocking teaches us more about ourselves than it does about trout. It’s a reminder that good intentions don’t always lead to good outcomes—and that what we call “fixing” nature often creates more questions than answers. Whether we call them native, non-native, or invasive, the fish in the river depend on us to tread carefully. After all, we’re the ones holding the hatchery truck keys.

Things Tend to Drag After Awhile

Ah, the dreaded drag—the ultimate dealbreaker in the fish world. You think you’re serving up a gourmet trout dinner, but to them, your fly looks more like a soggy hot dog being dragged around by a toddler. They’re not impressed. But fear not—drag can be avoided with a little finesse (and fewer tears).

First, there’s the classic mend. This is the fly fishing equivalent of fixing a crooked picture on the wall. Toss your line out, see where it lands all wrong, and casually flick it upstream like you totally meant to do that. If done correctly, your fly will drift naturally. If done poorly, congratulations, you’ve invented a new type of knot no one can untangle.

Next, let’s talk about your leader. It’s time to go long—awkwardly long. A 12-foot leader can save you from the shame of drag, but it also means you’ll spend half your day untying what looks like a cat’s cradle gone rogue. Pair that with a fine tippet, which is basically fishing with dental floss, and you’ll reduce drag… or break off your fly every time you sneeze. High risk, high reward.

Reading the water is another crucial skill. You want to aim for seams where currents meet, not the whitewater expressway. Trout hang out in the lazy sections, sipping bugs like they’re at an all-you-can-eat buffet. If you drop your fly in the wrong current, it’ll zoom past them like a rollercoaster, and they’ll politely decline.

And finally, your fly itself needs to act like it’s got its life together. No weird sinking, no awkward skittering across the surface. Use just enough floatant to keep it looking fresh but not so much that it turns into a waterproof buoy. A fly with too much floatant might as well come with a neon sign that says, “Fake food—do not eat.”

Drag-free drifts are the holy grail of fly fishing. You’ll know you’ve got it wrong when every trout in the river gives you the cold shoulder. But don’t worry—even if no fish bite, at least you’ll have a good excuse to practice tying knots for the next hour.

A Few Thoughts As The Year Comes To An End and Another Begins

Rebuilding habitat and fostering fellowship through fishing both rely on patience and the understanding that growth takes time. Whether it’s the land or relationships, both need steady, quiet care to thrive again.

Restoring a stream, for example, starts with cleaning up the clutter—debris, trash, and invasive plants. It’s not glamorous work, but over time, as the water clears and the banks return to health, the creatures that once lived there begin to return. It’s the same with relationships—sometimes you have to clear away misunderstandings or old wounds before you can rebuild the trust and connection. The process might seem slow, but with patience, the results can be remarkable.

Similarly, restoring a wetland isn’t something that happens overnight. After the plants are reintroduced and the channels are cleared, it might look barren for a while. But then, like the first bird returning to a newly restored marsh, the changes begin to show. It’s subtle but unmistakable—the land is healing. The same holds true for relationships. At first, efforts to reconnect can seem small, like just sharing a quiet moment together while fishing. But over time, those moments add up, and before you know it, you’ve reestablished something lasting.

Fellowship, too, thrives in the stillness of fishing. A father might take his daughter to the lake, and at first, the trip is filled with more impatience than catching. But as the day stretches on, conversations flow naturally between casting lines and watching the water. It’s in the quiet space between words that deeper connections are made, just as it’s in the quiet patience of the land that the habitat restores itself.

Rebuilding relationships, like fishing, is about showing up—often without knowing what to expect. Two friends who haven’t seen each other in years may find that their reunion isn’t about the fish they catch, but about the quiet moments shared in the act of fishing. At first, the conversations are awkward, the spaces between words heavy with unspoken histories. But as the day wears on, the rhythm of casting, waiting, and reeling begins to loosen those old barriers, and soon the laughter comes naturally.

In the end, both habitat restoration and fellowship require the same thing: persistence. It’s not about quick results or grand gestures. It’s about showing up, caring deeply, and trusting that with time, what you’ve nurtured will grow. Whether it’s the land or a relationship, the most profound rewards are often those that emerge quietly, steadily, and without fanfare.

Have a Merry Christmas and New Year wishes to all

Tight lines

* the view expressed are the sole property of the author and no malice or slight is intended