Ban the BOBBER!

In a recent TU email there was an essay on strike indicators. The author argued against the use of bobbers, strike indicators and various methods in aiding in the catching of fish. I whole heartily agree! The lost craft of fly fishing and the joy and beauty is lost in the pursuit of numbers as an indication of success. 

Yes you can nymph without such aids and if you do so you will develop a deeper sense and attachment to the art of fly fishing. Adding a split shot or a bit of tungsten putty will get a fly down in the zone. The acquisition of patience and observation will increase the chances of a hook up. The use of barbless hooks will not mean lost fish. 

Using the wrong tippet size appropriate the size of the fly, doesn't mean 7X. Or the fish will see my tippet knots. Lack of care in presentation and not scouting the waters before casting will send all the fish scurrying for cover. Oh, dries don't always have to be cast upstream, a careful cast with a small puddle of line fed out as the fly drifts down to a rising fish works. 

Stop making unnecessary false cast and if the cast land where you didn't intend it, work it back as any other cast and reload for the next. Don't rip it out of the water and hurry another misplaced cast. A missed fish need will never be in the same spot, so give it a rest. 

So that's my thoughts, I've always viewed fly fishing as a zen moment and stalking a rising trout requires patience and time. You don't need to fish hatches only, just adjust your technique and maybe if they're not cooperating it's just not a good time. Fly fishing is something you don't rush into. Enjoy the moments and the beauty around you.

To the Last Fly

 Despite my longing for solitude, I’ve spent countless hours fishing with friends over the years. Years later, my mind often takes me on a bizarre journey back in time to the exact moment I cherished their company. One such friend was Willie, a simple soul who worked for me spraying trees. Initially, I was taken aback by his speech pattern and his peculiar habit of repeating words in sentences without any context or meaning. However, beneath his quirks lay an honest man with a deep passion for fishing. He knew all the hidden gems where trout sought refuge in the secluded creeks and brackish waters that dotted the south shore.

As a native of the north shore, I was utterly captivated by this newfound world. While I was a decent fly caster, I wasn’t particularly skilled at fishing and aspired to improve. Willie would arrive at work every morning and embark on his assigned route. Occasionally, I would find a large brown trout in the office refrigerator. One day, my curiosity got the better of me, and I couldn’t resist asking him a question. This question led to our first outing on a rainy day when work was slow. That day, I caught my first south shore trout, and I was instantly hooked.

Now, let me clarify that I had been fishing for most of my life. I received my first fly rod at the tender age of 12. I had caught plenty of perch and bluegills and even managed to catch a few odd trout here and there. However, the mysteries of the streams remained elusive to me. While I could swing a streamer and occasionally catch a few fish, the dark art of nymphing was beyond my skill set. Forget about fishing dries; I was utterly confused by the various hatches and expert charts. But as I learned the value of patience, I gradually acquired some of these essential tools.  

In the early nineties, Bill complained of vision problems and headaches. He tried to ignore them, but his boss noticed the low production and wanted to fire him. Bill confided in me that he probably needed to quit and move on. It was easier said than done for a guy in his late fifties with no real skills than doing tree work. So, I suggested that I drive him along his route and do most of the work so that he could at least get paid. After two weeks, Bill said he couldn’t see anymore and driving to work was an issue.

So, he left. We reunited for an evening session at Connetquot, and we both had a fantastic time catching brook trout by the dozens. That evening, he shared some heartbreaking news with me—he had brain cancer and had only a few months to live. He also asked me to keep an eye on his house and gifted me a special token of his affection—his father’s fly rod, complete with the last fly his father ever fished—a dark Hendrickson. I still have that fly in one of my fly boxes as a memory of a decent man. 

It Was Bound to Happen

Another summer slipped away, leaving me stuck in a land of endless summer and indecision. The heat and humidity were unbearable, and the stench of low tide and the strong sun in the late afternoon made it difficult to find a place to escape. After a half-hour, I was reminded of the unpleasant smell of decay, the roar of traffic on the road just fifty feet away, and the reckless jet skis running wild with unqualified riders enjoying their thirty-minute rentals. This was not the getaway I had imagined, so I reluctantly returned to the car and made a promise to myself to come up with a real escape.

I decided to talk to one of my oldest friends, my college roommate, who reminded me that I was too old for a road trip and that 95 was a mess. It seemed like he had given up on the idea. The prospect of driving 1,200 miles didn’t help matters either. I thought about Montana, or Denver and the Rockies!

How about the Blue Ridge? Close enough to drive in a day and only Atlanta stood in the way. Maybe go to the Keys and try for some tarpon or snook, road there is a problem and place is full of adult delinquents. Nothing beat drunk and crazy middle age Floridians. Mmm, not sure what I'd expected. 

My body was in full rebellion, and I desperately needed a tune-up. I needed to work on everything, including my attitude. This old dog still had a bit more fight in him, and I needed to get off the off-ramp and out of this rutted road. I had to find the fun tube!

Time Passes All

News of someone’s passing seems to come up every day. None of us will live forever. My mind wanders a bit each day, and the news of an old colleague, friend, ally, brother, or amigo passing away snaps me back to reality.

The name George brings to mind my dad, brother, and George Costa. I met George at my first TU meeting. TU members can be divided into three groups: those who proudly display their TU stickers on their cars, those who attend meetings for social reasons, and those like George—people who talk the talk and walk the walk. George was friendly, warm-hearted, and dedicated to uniting people in a common cause.

I moved away and became less active in TU, but I still miss the monthly Red Quill, George’s passion project. Despite his sometimes misguided efforts, George was always honest, and his results were never bad. Throughout his life, George was an honest man. He spent countless hours documenting our chapters’ history through his photographs and nights at town hall meetings, collaborating with the town and DEC to bring stalled projects to fruition.

Thank you, George, for your time, the young people you mentored, and your efforts to recruit new leadership in our chapter. We have a picture of George hanging in our home office, showing someone how to cast a fly rod. 

Tight lines

Tales from the Fun Tube: "Tengo Hambre"

There was once a wanderer named Tengo Hambre—not because he lacked food, but because he craved something deeper: wilderness, wonder, and a world made better.

He wasn’t famous in the way most think of fame. He didn’t seek followers, but found them anyway—in kids learning to care for creeks, in friends who joined his impromptu trash pickups, in neighbors who were nudged toward the trailhead instead of the TV.

He earned his trail name on the Appalachian Trail, where he learned that hunger wasn’t always about the belly. Sometimes it was a hunger for mountains, rivers, stories, and silence.

He floated the icy Smith River with a grin, braving rapids and quiet eddies alike. He hiked sections of the PCT with calloused feet and a wide open heart, teaching with his steps and resting only when the sun did.

One night, high in the wild, he lay down in his tent and never woke up. But that wasn’t a tragedy. It was a finale in tune with his spirit—a gentle closing of a life lived with intention, grit, and grace.

And the lesson he leaves is not complicated.

We do what we do not because it’s easy, or because someone tells us to. We do it because something inside us calls—and if we listen, really listen—that call becomes a compass.

Tengo Hambre never stopped hungering for that better world. And in walking his path, he helped blaze ours.

Are you a defender of public lands?

Why not? Are you too busy? Do you have concerns about preserving America’s green environment? Are you too conservative? It sounds like liberal nonsense! Let me enlighten you: safeguarding our public lands from the control of oligarchs and international corporations is a shared concern.

Like to hike, camp, fish, and other outdoor activities? Then it’s worth it, and that’s enough reason to defend public lands. Or like seeing a strip mine in Yellowstone or Glacier. Run off from a fracked gas site leaking into the West Branch? Get off your ass, put down that remote, and do something. Let your voice be heard. It is not just the obvious things like mills, mines, and oil derricks. It can be subtle things like foreign governments and corporations buying up land to grow a crop. Innocent?

A while back, I read that the Saudis had purchased land in Arizona to cultivate timothy grass to feed cattle in Saudi Arabia. They are depleting our precious water resources and shipping them to the Middle East. The Chinese are also involved in similar unethical practices. So, now let’s drill, baby, drill. We happen to be one of the largest oil exporters, yet we import oil. The reason is refiners; it seems American refiners are outdated, and we have an abundance of the wrong type of oil. Research it. The gaslighting continues. 

 

DEI

 A lack of diversity in nature often leads to unintended and sometimes disastrous consequences. In healthy ecosystems, a balance between predator and prey keeps everything in check. But today, diversity is under attack—driven by fear and misunderstanding.

Nature offers countless warnings. Streets once lined exclusively with Elm trees were devastated by Dutch Elm disease due to monoculture planting. Rainbow trout are now vulnerable to whirling disease, a result of limited genetic diversity. Ash trees are dying off rapidly because of an invasive insect, with little resistance across the uniform population.

These are just a few examples. When we strip diversity from the equation—whether in nature or elsewhere—we weaken the system, leaving it fragile and exposed.

Before we Go Fishing this Season a Few Thoughts

 Time and time again, history teaches lessons soon forgotten. Those who fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it.

The cycle of ignorance repeats itself due to a growing lack of interest in what truly matters. People are glued to their screens, living vicariously through posts and rumors spread on social media. In this digital age, facts are blurred, misrepresented, and twisted, while truth becomes the ultimate casualty.

There is an old adage: “A lie will travel halfway around the world before the truth puts its shoes on.” This has never been truer than in today’s fast-paced world of misinformation. It is our responsibility to become fact-checkers, to question before we accept, and to verify before we share.

Develop the skill of critical thinking. Learn to analyze, question, and seek the truth beyond the noise. In a time when deception is rampant, the ability to think critically is not just a skill—it is a necessity.

Happy Saint Patricks Day the fishing season and good weather is coming soon. 

OBTW don't say saint paddy, that's not correct Paddy is a derogatory name. 

Take This Anyway You Want

The wind howled through the empty streets, rattling broken signs and sending leaves scuttling along the cracked pavement. Darkness loomed over the city, not just from the storm clouds that stretched endlessly across the sky, but from the heaviness that had settled in the hearts of its people. Despair clung to every doorstep, every alley, every dimly lit window.

For months, everything had unraveled. Businesses shuttered, families fractured, hope faded. It seemed as though nothing good could ever take root in such barren times. And then, just as the weight of the world threatened to crush what little remained, a miracle arrived.

It wasn’t loud, nor did it announce itself with great fanfare. It was a whisper on the wind, a small yet undeniable shift in the air. A child’s laughter broke through the silence—clear, unburdened, full of something long forgotten: hope. People turned toward the sound, drawn as if by instinct. A young girl stood on the corner, her tattered coat barely warding off the chill, yet she smiled as she held out a candle, its flame unwavering despite the gusts that threatened to snuff it out.

One by one, people approached. Some knelt beside her, shielding the fragile light from the wind. Others produced their own candles, wicks catching the flame, passing it from one hand to the next. The street, once bathed in shadows, began to glow with a golden warmth. Faces that had been lined with worry softened, voices hushed in quiet reverence.

Word spread. Soon, across the city, tiny flames flickered in windows, on doorsteps, in the hands of those who had nearly forgotten what it meant to believe in something better. It was not a grand rescue, not an immediate solution to the troubles that plagued them, but it was something. A beginning. A little glimmer of hope.

And sometimes, that was all that was needed.

The Last Breath

I always thought clean air and clean water were a birthright. My delusional dream of the great outdoors. Back in the days of leaded gasoline, the problems were just below the surface. The needs of industrial America were slowly tearing at that dream. Today, that dream is slowly turning into a nightmare.

I used to hike these hills with my father. Back then, the trees were thick, the rivers clear, and the air crisp. He’d shake his head at the smokestacks on the horizon and say, “They’ll take everything if we let them.”

Turns out, we let them.

The companies swore they’d changed. Cleaner fuels, better regulations, sustainability reports full of glossy pictures of blue skies and happy children. But it was all a shell game. They planted a few trees while clear-cutting forests overseas. They scrubbed their smokestacks while dumping waste into rivers. They bought out scientists, buried studies, lobbied for loopholes. And we kept buying their lies, right up until the air was too thick to breathe.

Now, I step outside and taste metal on my tongue. The sun struggles through a layer of haze, its light filtered by decades of unchecked ambition. A commercial blares from a passing electric bus, boasting about “a greener future.” I cough into my sleeve and keep walking past the latest refinery “expansion project.”

They tell us they’re fixing it. They always say that. Meanwhile, their profits soar, their CEOs collect bonuses, and their waste keeps piling up. The world didn’t have to end this way. But when the choice was between the planet and the bottom line, we all know which one they chose.

The great outdoors? It was never theirs to sell. But they sold it anyway.

And now, we’re the ones paying the price. 

The Fool’s Quest: A Fly Fisher’s Tale

Peering into the murky waters, I knew I was on a fool’s quest. But some quests are worth the folly. I had been cooped up too long, and desperation for some outdoor adventure had pushed me out the door. So, with my fly rod in one hand and a box of carefully selected flies in the other, I headed to a local fishing hotspot.

Now, “hotspot” is a term that should always be taken with a grain of salt. To some, it means an area teeming with fish, a surefire place to land a catch. To others—myself included—it just means a place where hopeful anglers gather to tell stories, soak up the scenery, and occasionally throw a line in the water.

As I rigged up my rod, I could feel the weight of the stares. There were two types of fishermen present: the seasoned locals, who had long since given up on any illusions of privacy, and the newcomers to Florida, who were still getting used to fishing in a state where nearly everything in the water has teeth. They all watched with varying levels of amusement and confusion as I tied on my fly.

Then came the confrontation on the floating dock. An “expert” emerged, his presence announced by the unmistakable twang of a Midwestern drawl. Arms crossed, he took a long, skeptical look at my setup before offering his expert opinion.

“I’ve never seen anyone catch fish with that thing,” he said, nodding toward my fly rod like I had just pulled out a fencing foil instead of fishing gear.

I smiled, waiting for the inevitable follow-up. He did not disappoint.

“I got an extra pole here if you want,” he added, as if rescuing me from my own ignorance.

Ah, the sweet sting of unsolicited advice. I’ve learned that in the world of fishing, there’s always someone eager to correct you—especially if you don’t have a cooler full of fish to prove them wrong. I could have explained that I wasn’t out here to fill a freezer. I could have tried to enlighten him on the artistry of fly fishing, the rhythm of the cast, the satisfaction of placing a fly exactly where you want it.

But I knew it wouldn’t matter. To him, fishing was a numbers game. The only measure of success was what you dragged onto the dock. A day spent fishing without a catch was, in his mind, a wasted effort.

I just smiled, nodded, and declined his offer. He didn’t get it, and that was fine. Some people never will. Because for me, fishing has never been just about the catching. It’s about the pursuit, the stillness, the quiet thrill of watching the line dance on the water. It’s about stepping away from the noise of life and embracing the simple pleasure of waiting.

So I stood there, casting into the murky water, knowing full well that the fish might win today. And honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Snuck Out to .....

I haven't fished since late winter 2021, sadly so, the best laid plans can go astray. Blame the red tide, my inherent fear of alligators and the high UV index. So today on a whim I packed some of the basics and went casting. No really, fishing involves more planning and investigation. My neighbor likes to go to his secret spot and do some crittering.  Crittering as defined by Doug is anything other than fly fishing for a salmonid, crittering involves live  dare I say it BAIT.

I have to admit I was out of place with my 6 Wt 8 footer, and streamer taper line. Lucky for me the tide was wrong and the sun was in full UV blazing. So after a few fish less cast, I departed.

Part 2 of this saga later this week 

This has Been Stuck in my Craw for Sometime!

The Decline of Expertise and the Rise of Know-It-Alls

When I was younger, research was an adventure. If I had an assignment, I’d trek through the dense jungles of the encyclopedia, navigate the treacherous peaks of the dictionary, and—if I was feeling particularly daring—consult an actual expert, like a teacher or librarian. It was hard work, but at least I knew I wasn’t basing my essay on the wild theories of some guy named BigJim78 on Twitter.

Today, research consists of typing a question into Google, clicking the first link (which may or may not be an ad), and—if one is feeling especially academic—watching a two-minute TikTok summarizing the topic. Who needs experts when you have influencers explaining quantum physics in 30 seconds, usually while dancing?

The problem isn’t just that people are getting their facts wrong; it’s that they’re so sure they’re right. A person who spent ten years getting a Ph.D. in epidemiology will cautiously say, “The data suggests…” while Gary from Facebook—whose last formal education was a mandatory high school health class—will confidently declare, “Nah, that’s all fake.” And somehow, Gary wins the argument.

It’s not just science. History is now rewritten daily by people who skimmed a meme and suddenly believe they know the real story. “Actually, the pyramids were built by aliens.” Sure, Bob. And I suppose Napoleon was just a really enthusiastic cosplayer.

The decline of expertise has consequences. We now live in a world where people would rather trust a YouTube deep dive than an actual scientist, where every conversation has a self-proclaimed expert, and where asking, “Are you sure about that?” is considered an act of war.

So, what’s the solution? Maybe we start small—like remembering that just because something has a lot of likes doesn’t make it true. Or that knowing a little about something doesn’t mean knowing everything. And most importantly, let’s agree that when it comes to life-and-death matters, we should probably listen to the people with actual degrees, not the guy who thinks Wikipedia is “too biased.”

And now I spit that out, back to fishing!

In a Heartbeat!

Life can change in an instant. One moment, everything feels stable and predictable, and the next, chaos takes over. A sudden change can feel like a storm, and if not handled properly, it can break even the strongest of spirits. Anxiety seeps in like a slow poison, eroding peace of mind and chipping away at good health. Stress takes its toll on the body and soul, leaving exhaustion and unease in its wake.

But nature offers a remedy—fly fishing. The rhythmic dance of casting a line, the gentle flow of the river, and the serene beauty of the outdoors all work together to calm the restless mind. The focus required to tie a fly, to read the water, and to patiently wait for the perfect strike draws attention away from worry and toward the present moment. Plus, let’s be honest, nothing makes you forget your problems faster than watching your buddy fall into the river while trying to show off his “perfect cast.”

Taking time for self-care is not a luxury; it is a necessity. Stepping away from the rush of life, resting, fishing, and allowing oneself to recharge is an act of preservation. And if you don’t catch anything? Well, at least you have a great excuse for why dinner is just a bag of chips. The burdens of today will not last forever. As the old saying goes, “This too will pass.” And in the meantime, the river keeps flowing, offering a place of solace—and maybe even a fish—for those who seek it.

Dedicated to those we left behind at the river

Tight lines ya'll !

Superfine

 The Return of the Orvis Superfine Graphite – A Love Letter to Small Streams

For those who know, they know. The Orvis Superfine Graphite isn’t just a fly rod—it’s a time machine. A whisper of nostalgia wrapped in modern performance. And now, it’s back, ready to dance delicately across the waters of small, technical streams once more.

Designed for precision and grace, the Superfine Graphite isn’t about brute force or casting for the horizon. It’s about finesse. It’s for the angler who understands that in the world of spring creeks, subtlety is king. That a perfect drift and a featherlight touch can mean the difference between a wary trout rising or vanishing into the depths.

This rod isn’t for the impatient. It’s for the purist, the one who appreciates the art of fly fishing as much as the catch itself. Whether you’re chasing wild browns in a hidden meadow stream or fooling finicky brookies in a shaded riffle, the Superfine Graphite is your trusted companion.

So, to those who wade quietly, who tie on 6X tippet with reverence, who live for the thrill of a perfectly placed dry fly—welcome back to what you’ve been missing. The Orvis Superfine Graphite has returned. The fish have been waiting.

On a Sad Note

Farewell, Dear Brother

Sometimes, things happen for a reason. Other times, life shifts in an instant, testing our strength in ways we never expected. Today, I lost my brother—my lifelong friend, my constant. The weight of this loss is heavy, but in its midst, I’ve witnessed something powerful: the quiet force of compassion.

Grief has a way of revealing the best in people. In the moments when words fail, kindness steps in. A hand on the shoulder, a shared silence, an unspoken understanding—these small acts become lifelines. I’ve seen how, in sadness, people instinctively lift one another, offering strength even when they themselves are broken.

True leadership isn’t about control or authority; it’s about showing up—with empathy, with grace, with love. It’s about putting aside our own pain, if only for a moment, to hold space for someone else. Today, I saw that in the faces of friends and family. I felt it in the embraces that lingered just a little longer, in the quiet reassurances that we will carry on, together.

So, farewell, dear brother. Your journey has ended, but the love and lessons you shared remain. In your memory, I will choose compassion. I will choose to lead with heart. And I will carry forward, knowing that the greatest strength we have is in the way we care for one another.

Rest well. You are deeply missed.

Left the river on Valentine’s Day 

Lots to See and Do

So do it!

Gear Care Simplified

Taking care of your gear is a key part of fly fishing, and in a recent video, the other Tom—Tom Rosenbauer of Orvis fame—showed a simple way to clean and store fly line. No need to strip it all off the reel or use some elaborate setup. Just clean it while it’s still on the reel and store it as is.

We’ve come a long way from the days of silk lines, which required careful drying and treatment after every use. Modern fly lines are low-maintenance, but a quick cleaning keeps them performing their best. A little care now means smoother casts and longer-lasting gear down the road.

Click to watch Tom explain on this clip from The New Fly Fisher

https://youtu.be/4CvAnGBUqHM?si=-OSHYcJJM30QS0x1

Why We Fight (Fish)

The morning tide moves slow, a glassy surface broken only by the occasional ripple of feeding fish. Redfish tail in the shallows, their copper backs flashing in the early light. Further out, bluefish slash through bait schools, the chaos of their hunt unmistakable.

A fly angler knows the challenge ahead. For redfish, it’s about patience—moving slow, keeping low, presenting the fly with precision. One bad cast, one heavy footstep, and they’re gone, ghosting into deeper water. But when it’s right—when the fly lands softly, when the fish turns, follows, then inhales—it’s pure magic.

Bluefish, though, are another story. There’s no subtlety, no finesse. They hit like they mean it, like the ocean itself is running through their veins. The first run is a jolt, a reminder that these fish don’t just fight—they punish. And if you weren’t ready with a steel leader? Well, that’s just another fly lost to those razor teeth.

Two fish, two battles, one undeniable truth: saltwater fly fishing isn’t just about the catch. It’s about the hunt, the anticipation, and the moment where everything comes together—or falls apart in the blink of an eye. Either way, you keep casting.