Another Angler's Thoughts and a Little Push

Thanks to some new connections on Twitter (@FadingAngler if you dare!), I was fortunate to wander across some recent writing from April Vokey.  April is one of those people who have found a way to successfully make their living in the outdoors.  She a guide, writer (I guess I mentioned that already), and the kind of adventurer I wish I could be.  She's also really into Swift fly rods, like my Epic 686.  Yeah, she's cool.  Much cooler than me.

Recent Swift promo on Twitter, featuring April.

Here's what caught my eye, my mind, and my heart when I saw this in her Twitter feed (reprinted with permission):

As an animal lover, this whole hunting thing has been very emotional. Never have I felt so attached to the food I eat, or to the food I see so often go to waste. I feel a responsibility to know where my food comes from, and to limit my grocery store shopping when there's been an animal killed for my wellbeing.

It's been hard. I've lost sleep. I've had to take some very deep looks into who I am as a person. Yet, I've still decided that this is for me, that I will still eat meat, and that I will always feel a connection to nature - the day that I can't accept this, I will stick to eating fish... but I just don't foresee that in the near future.

Vic and Kath from @oceanhunter_sportsfishing have taken me under their wings to open my eyes to this new world. Kath has fed me some of the most incredible meals made with wild game, and Vic has taught me how to gut and prepare an animal. I thought it would be one of the hardest things I've ever been a part of, but while he and I were doing the stuff so many of us try to pretend doesn't happen, I kept asking myself, "would you still eat a pork burrito"? Why, yes I would. And until I make the decision not to, I choose to come to grips with the reality of where my food comes from, as well as all the pain, heartache, and hard work that goes along with it.

I think I'll always cry after a kill and I'm ok with that. I'm ready for it. You'll never see me smiling and posing with an animal (this is likely the most graphic photo I will ever post), you'll never see me sponsored by a hunting company (this time I'm keeping this sport as mine... there will be no career involved here. It's so exhilarating to be just as excited over a sport as I was when I first got into fishing), and I will always respect that not everyone understands where I'm coming from (I'm sorry mom and dad) ... but, for now, I'm still craving pork burritos. Didn't see this one coming. Xo

I'm going to assume that this was the first time that April had ever taken the life of a land animal with intent.  Regardless, her feelings rippled across a normally calm spot in my mind like a pebble tossed in a pond, and resonated.  I immediately admired April for her honesty and for her courage.  She had the courage to challenge her own beliefs and test her ethics.  This is the best kind of intelligence.  Her reaction feels raw and very genuine.  I believe that these words and feelings come from the core of who she is.  And I'm grateful she had the courage and desire to write publicly about it, because it's time I faced a lingering internal dilemma of my own, one that The Little Voices® and I have not been able to resolve on my (our?) own: the ethics and morality of catch and release fishing.

I'm hoping April would be willing to participate in a discussion with me.  I'm also hoping that I can spend some time chatting with my friend and frequent fishing guide Joe Bloomquist. I need other people's perspectives, and I need to challenge my own philosophy a bit, because I despise hypocracy and won't tolerate it in myself, even if it means I never catch-and-release again.

It might take a while to arrange these conversations, but I'll report back when I can. 

Thinking Deep

I'm not a deep person.  My emotions and thoughts tend to run close to the surface.  I'm so driven to gather and assimilate data and connect facts that I miss the opportunity to make deeper connections.  Except with math and physics.  But that's a completely different and nerdy tale that would scare real people away.  So I'll let it go... I guess.  Classical literature also escapes me, though I was a fan of "Deep Thoughts with Jack Handey" on Saturday Night Live.  Mr. Handey even had some thoughts about his Grandpa going fishing, but the ending just wasn't the kind of thing I wanted to risk including here.  Google at your leisure.

I even consider myself to be a shallow fisherman.  It's still unbelievably rewarding watching a trout swipe a floating dry fly, even if it misses.  Going under the surface requires a whole new set of skills, which sounds like work.  Do I really want to work when I'm fishing?  Also being male, I'm not exactly predisposed to being a deep thinker.  Scratch, scratch.  Grunt.  Ooo, shiny!

Lately I've been faced with some challenges and choices that have required me to think deep.  Those of you with degrees in English or Journalism might be twitching and barely suppressing the urge to attack with a red pen.  You might be thinking, "You idiot.  You should have written 'required me to think deeply.'"  And you would be correct, yet wrong.  The grammar police might issue a ticket, but I'd convince the judge to dismiss the charges, kinda like that speeding where I play-acted as my own attorney.  Instead of thinking deeply, I've been considering Deep Brain Stimulation, a surgical therapy for Parkinson's Disease.

Here's the ten-thousand foot overview of Deep Brain Stimulation: your head gets locked into a "halo" to make sure you can't move while a neurosurgeon drills a hole in your skull and threads some electrodes down into a targeted region deep in your brain.  These electrodes are then connected to a small device that gets implanted in your chest.   The device applies an electrical signal intended to disrupt a malfunctioning part of the brain that contributes to the muscle rigidity, slowness, and tremors of PD.

Then there's the terrifying bit: most of the surgeries are done with the patient conscious and aware.   The final placement of the electrodes usually involves patient participation, with a test signal being applied as the surgeon moves the leads a fraction of a millimeter at a time.  I have avoided going to the dentist for more than 20 years simply because I can't face the thought of having a tooth drilled.  My skull?  I've cried when discussing this with neurologists.

There are also non-trivial risks associated with the surgery.  Some statistics show a 25% chance of significant "adverse events" during or immediately following surgery.  2% chance of stroke that causes permanent damage or death.  I'll stop the risk analysis here.

Why consider doing this?  As I sit in front of my Macbook, my neck and upper back throb in pain.  Since my meds have worn off for the day, my typing rate is reduced to maybe a quarter of my usual speed.  It would be nice to have some balance again, and not limp around.

Fear has been eating at my energy and self-control.  One of the absolute worst problems that Parkinson's Disease has brought me has nothing to do with movement.  Loss of dopamine has sometimes paralyzed me with anxiety, and that can lead to severe mood problems.  Getting angry with yourself because you see how it affects your family just adds fuel to the fire.  I'm sometimes able to find my way out of this mental maze, but not before accumulating some serious shame baggage.

I arrived at the conclusion that we (Mrs. Fading Angler and I) are going to at least learn whether or not I qualify as a candidate for DBS therapy.  I've had some symptoms that might disqualify me, and if so, I can dismiss the risks, anxiety, and decisions.  For now, I need to go fishing.  I'll be spending the next few mornings and evenings chasing brookies and browns.  Maybe some trout therapy will loosen my knotted psyche.

Safe weekend and tight lines, folks.  I'll be fishing on top.

Epilogue: I have a "no whining" policy for myself here on The Fading Angler, and it looks in retrospect like I came perilously close to violating said policy.  Here's my attempt to make it right without rewriting history: the weekend of fishing helped.

Butter Side Up - Perpetual Motion

I spent a few hours last weekend fishing with my 7'6" Redington Butter Stick on a small creek in the Minnesota driftless area.  My goal was to formulate and solidify some thoughts about using this little 4-weight throwback from modern fast-action graphite.  My first actual use of this rod was two weekends before that, when I took my daughter with me on a short morning hike.  I had her set up with my 7' 3-weight St. Croix Imperial that I purchased exactly for these streams.  While demonstrating some "technique" for my daughter, I was mentally struck by how lively the Butter Stick felt in comparison to the Imperial.  I was impressed with the feel, and with how I was still able to lay some casts into a mild breeze later on in the day.

Over the next two weekends, the Butter Stick became something of an enigma for me.  On occasion, I would lay out the most beautiful (for me) dry fly cast at 30' to 40' distances.   Others, I couldn't get line to shoot, or forward casts just piled up instead of rolling out.  I also determined that I wouldn't be using this for any kind of nymph fishing other than single-nymph.  But you really can't complain when it allows you to pull 3 brown trout out of a crystal clear hole in 15 minutes with a size 18 dry fly.

Source: desktopnexus.com

I'm certain I will spend more time with the rod I now call Mellow Yellow.  But I am reminded of an old joke:  Cats always land on their feet, but toast always land butter-side down.  So, what happen when you tie a butter-side up piece of toast to the back of a cat and drop it out a window?  It spins about a foot off the ground.

I feel a little like that cat right now... dizzy and confused.

Anyone reading this should grab their salt shaker and remember a couple of facts:
  A) I am not an accomplished fly caster
  2) I am brand new to fiberglass.  Just experimenting.

This is just a story.  A very sad little story.  Or maybe a cry for help.  Do not hold this rod responsible for my inadequacies or arrogance.  Renowned dry fly casting expert Eddie Rivard liked the Butter Stick when he tried it.  I will come back to this and try again.  I probably need to concentrate more on the cast than on the fish.

Besides, I have a new fiberglass toy to play with this weekend.

Delayed Gratification

We had a bit of an ordeal getting to Craig.  It's a tale of ups and downs, circles, accidents and equipment failures, snow & sun, fish tails, and interesting Parkinson's reactions.  It's time for bed here, but I'll offer a preview of what's to come next week...

The Fading Angler with guide Joe Bloomquist, showing off
one of MANY double-hookups on Saturday

Until then!

T'was the Night Before...

T'was the night before Friday, tomorrow's the day
the Good Wife and I will be flying away.
A trip to Montana! A drive down to Craig!
I wanna go fishing, Please Don't Make Me BEG!*

Our waders are folded, boots ready to stow.
The Sage rods encased and they're ready to go.
The excitement is building, I wanna leave town!
I've been dreaming of something in rainbow or brown...

It's that time of the year when the flying things hatch
and we try to toss patterns that look like they match.
Last year's hatches were epic, I caught fishes galore!
Please let me leave now, I can't wait anymore! 

*sigh*

Sixteen hours from now, I'll be on a jet.
Twenty four after that, my boots ought to be wet.
Two days drifting and wading, the time will go fast.
Hey, hold on a minute, please?  Just ONE MORE cast!

* Note that when recited with the correct Minnesotan accent, the word "beg" does indeed rhyme with "Craig." Mostly.

Don’t let it get you down

It's a genuine pleasure to offer some words and perspective from a new friend.  Howard and I struck up a conversation after he recently visited here and left a few comments.  He was kind enough to accept my invitation to write a guest entry for The Fading Angler blog.  I've only known him a short while, but I can't say enough good things about him.  Here's what he had to say when I asked him what he'd post around here..

 

Howard is a big supporter of Project Healing Waters

I’m of the mindset that attitude is everything. If you are a sour person because you’ve got a disability and can’t do the things you used to do or want to do, remember this. I don’t know one person who woke up one morning and said, “I think I’ll be disabled today.”

Look at it this way; life is tough.  By the time most people get to those “golden years” they’ve usually got a bushel basket of ills, aches, pains and disabilities. They’ve learned to soldier on if they’re smart. It makes growing old, a bit easier on the soul.

My buddy Chris here at Fading Angler has made the most of his time here on earth. He loves to fly fish because it soothes his soul. So he does what he loves to help him get down that road with the cards he’s been dealt.

I’ve lost a lot of my hearing.  It’s really annoying and maddening when I have to keep saying huh? Not to mention the people who get annoyed with me because they have to repeat what they said, sometimes more than twice.  I’ve had quintuple bypass surgery and it’s knocked the hell out of me. At the time of my life when I should be enjoying my free time fly fishing, many days I can barely get out of bed.  But I do because it’s my nature and I love fly fishing. It soothes my soul.

On any given day, my wife is the only person who knows how I’m feeling.  I’m pretty good at hiding it. It’s my weird sense of humor and personality that get me through day after day. And after all, if I don’t know how your life is going, why would I want to pile my problems on top of yours.  And remember, there is no such thing as everybody turns into a grumpy old man or woman.  If you are grumpy when you’re young, you’re going to be grumpy.  If you’re a happy go lucky type that doesn’t let the world hold you down…you’ll be a happy go lucky old person.  Keep smiling…enjoy life.

Howard Levett, is a fly fisherman from Colorado. He writes the blog www.windknotstangledlines.com and in his real life works at the Center for People with Disabilities (www.cpwd.org) as a disability advisor.

Opportunity Knocks Twice, Part IV: A New Hope

This is the final installment in what was planned as a four-part mini-series.  Things didn't quite work out as planned.  You’re invited to start with the prequels if you haven’t read them, but I won't insist that they're prerequisites.  After all, George Lucas started with Episode IV...

• Opportunity Knocks Twice: Prologue 
• Opportunity Knocks Twice, Part II: It's Knot a Problem 
• Opportunity Knocks Twice, Part III: I Am Not Lefthanded 
• Opportunity Knocks Twice, Part III-and-a-Half: Pride and Parkinson's

 A long time ago in a magazine far,
 far away...

Knock knock!

Who’s there?
Opportunity.
Can’t be.  Opportunity only knocks once.

Cute.  But untrue.  In my case, Opportunity is leaning on the doorbell.  My life thus far has been filled with improbable second chances.  I got a second chance with my newborn son, when a doctor revived him after he quit breathing.  Another when he clung to life by a thread for weeks following complications from his first open heart surgery.  Another chance after the accident.  I was 19, and my brother was 16.  I came home from college for Easter weekend on a Thursday night.  In a moment that could have been inspired by “A River Runs Through It,” my brother and I made plans to go fishing the next morning.  We left early, and we didn’t come home for a long time.  One of us never really did come home.

Opportunity Knocks Twice, Part III-and-a-Half: Pride and Parkinson's

I’ve never been proud of my fly angling skills.  In fact, I’ve always been rather embarrassed when someone who knows how to work a fly rod is forced to endure the unholy sight of my efforts to cast a flyline.  I dread having an expert see me laughingly “cast” a fly rod.  In a quantum nightmare, The Little Voices in my head start shouting all of the possible criticisms that might be going through said expert’s mind:  “This guy’s hopeless.”  “He’s actually caught fish?”  “That’s the worst use I’ve ever seen for a fly rod.”  “Reverend Maclean is rolling in his grave.”  “He’d be better off taking up knitting.”  And while I profess not to be “proud,” it’s pure pride that makes me want to hide my deficiencies.

So, let’s do a little non-mathematical calculating:

1. Parkinson’s Disease: progressive, degenerative neurological condition that (among MANY other things) affects muscular control.  This is making me stiff & shaky, affecting my balance, and making it increasingly difficult to cast a flyline with my right hand
2. I refuse to give up fly angling yet.  It’s part of my identity and good for me in many ways
3. I’m embarrassed to have other people watch me cast a fly rod
4. If my skills don’t improve at least as fast as my ability decays, I might not be fishing much longer.

Solution: Pride must be abandoned.  And not just for fishing.

I took a quick trip last weekend to the border regions of Montana and Wyoming near Sheridan, WY and Fort Smith, MT.  I had a singleminded goal for the trip:  improve my fly angling skills.  My highest priority was to improve my lefthanded casting abilities.  Next was paying attention to the details of two waters I’d never fished before:  the Big Horn River north of Fort Smith, and Piney Creek south of Sheridan.  I got connected with Clark Smyth of Rock Creek Anglers to float a few miles of the Big Horn River in his Adipose drift boat (technically, a skiff…)  When I first talked to Clark, I let him know that I have PD and that I’ve just switched over to casting with my left arm.  I described my “abilities” and told him my goal for the trip.  “I’m here to help,” is what he said, and he repeated it several times during the trip. 

Opportunity Knocks Twice, Part III: I Am Not Lefthanded

Can you teach an old river new tricks?

Flathead River downstream of Columbia Falls, Montana

“Water follows the path of least resistance.”  If humans are mostly water, we should not be shocked to discover that our nature reflects our composition.  Our lives tend to run a fairly static course.  The course of each life’s riverbed wanders as we gush with early life, then settles into gorges, canyons, valleys, and channels that rarely deviate.  Only dramatic events tend to alter the flow. 

A 7.6 magnitude earthquake outside Yellowstone National Park dramatically changed part of the Madison River in 1959.  A landslide dam completely blocked the flow for a time.  Humans were left with a choice: leave the river, in the form a newborn lake, to it’s own devices or intervene.  Leaving nature to determine the future could have resulted in more drama downstream if the young dam breached and released a flood into the Madison River valley.  A spillway was built to allow the river to adapt to the new conditions, with less drama.

Something started tossing rocks into the waters of my life a few years ago.  Then boulders.  A thumb twitch was the first pebble that made noticeable riples in an otherwise calm stretch.  I’ll spare you the tedium of naming each rock in the pile of debris that’s harshed my mellow groove.  Suffice it to say that something dramatic continues to alter the course of my river.  One of the rocks is messing with my right side.  The Principle of Least Resistance dictates that I drift with it until it merges into something else.  I’ve stayed this course, and now I choose to dig a side channel instead.

More Than Words

Sending out thanks to:

• Headhunters Fly Shop in Craig, MT for letting us park the 5th-wheel RV for a few nights, and for letting me try the new Sage Mod!
• Isaak's for the food and beverages
• Matt Mortensen, our fishing guide with Missouri River Lodge and X-Stream Fly Fishing, Wolf Creek, MT.  Matt, you are absolutely crazy.  And we love you for it! (This was our second trip with Matt as a guide.  There will be more!)

The rest of this story can be told with photos.  Mostly.

Opportunity Knocks Twice, Part II: It's Knot a Problem

You know that scene at the very end of “A River Runs Through It,” where the actor portraying the elder Norman Maclean is tying a fly onto his tippet?  He looks thoughtfully into the distance, then the scene switches to a tight shot of his slow and shaky hands.  Being unable to tie knots on the river means an end to independent fishing, so a solution is needed.

The Blog at the End of the Universe

In many ways, this writing project is about restoring or finding hope.  I won't deny that I'm hopeful that somehow the universe will guide a few lost souls here and that a few of those will actually take some time out of their lives to do a bit of reading.  This is hope in its purest, mythical form.  Perhaps even delusion.  Not only that, I find myself crossing a line: I'm planning to offer advice.  As if The InterCloud isn't already awash in beneficial information about fly fishing, I'm hoping to contribute something of value.  When I analyze the idea of offering advice, a few things cross my mind.