And over the course of time, I have come to the conclusion that everyone should have a friend just like him.
He is not a fishin’ buddy and “adopted son” like Sean. He’s not a twin brother from a different mother like Bill. Nor is he a ministry partner like John. He’s just Chuck and he’s the guy that is not afraid to tell it like it is, the guy who will straighten me out when I’m gettin’ too full of myself and the guy who keeps me on my toes.
Chuck rolls to the beat of a different drum for sure but, in a world that can be so shallow and plastic, he’s the Real Deal.
Besides that, he has a wicked sense of humor and the uncanny ability to make me laugh hard enough to shoot coffee from my nose – usually at the most inappropriate times. (As if there is an appropriate time to expel hot liquids from your nasal passages.)
Anyway, Chuck is the guy that can find anything. Mention that you’re looking for a copy of an old fishing book long out of print and sooner or later he will toss it on the table as you sit down to have lunch.
Tell him about your quest for a tool or gadget that hasn’t been seen in forty years and he’ll track it down like a bloodhound.
The amazing part of it is that Chuck doesn’t drive and has only been using a computer for the last two of his sixty-odd years.
He is definitely old school in his methods but he knows his “craft” and he knows it well. I often liken him to Fagin from the Dickens classic novel, Oliver Twist, which he has never read but is sure that he would like it if he ever did. He has a network of cronies and dumpster divers and swap meet rats and garage sale cruisers that he manages like the CEO of a corporation – his Minions, he likes to call them in an ironic sense of the word.He is also supremely self-confident and talkative and regularly rubs elbows with city council members and business execs with the same casual familiarity that he has with the wino on the bus stop bench or the Jehovah’s Witness knocking on his door.
And he is my friend.
So last week between services at church, he came shuffling across the parking lot with his oversize shopping bag thumping heavily against his leg with every other step. It must have taken him a full half hour to walk the two hundred yards from the bus stop to the church parking lot, but there he was, unmistakable in his light pink Fedora – his Mac Daddy Hat – as he likes to call it. He flagged me down and told me that he had something for me.
Sure enough, he had an old copy of McClane’s Standard Fishing encyclopedia (1965 edition), a copy of the Complete Book of Flyfishing from Sweden and…a trout shaped telephone.
Not that I had asked him to find a trout shaped phone! In fact, we are seriously contemplating dropping our landlines completely and just using our cell phones at home. Nevertheless, he had taken it upon himself to gift me with these items solely on his knowledge and understanding that I love most things fishing and flyfishing in particular. So, he proudly pulled this full-size, plastic, rainbow trout-shaped phone out of his black bag and presented it to me with the same amount of fanfare and excitement that would be exhibited at the Oscar ceremonies later that same day.
Now, it is hard not to draw attention to yourself when someone presents you a trout shaped, vibrantly colored, plastic phone in the midst of three hundred or so jovial, chatting, upbeat people who all know you. It is even harder not to draw attention to yourself when you suddenly and forcefully eject hot coffee from you nostrils in the midst of those same three hundred or so people…
So, I have this friend named Chuck and he knows how to keep me humble and not take myself too seriously.
I think everyone should have a friend like Chuck.
“I love my buddy Chuck and I love this addiction called urban flyfishin”.
So every couple of years my wife and I recognize that our veterinary practice needs a “shot in the arm”, so to speak, in order to revitalize and refresh our business plan and… to keep our heads from popping off our necks.
This “shot-in-the-arm” usually comes in the form of what we call an upper-level staff retreat. Now, since we are the only two upper level staff, that usually means we go somewhere where we can relax for a bit and have some long, uninterrupted discussions and planning sessions without the day to day pressures and busy-ness of our normal routine intruding.
Last week, we had the amazing blessing of holding our “retreat” on the island of Kauai.
I gotta tell you, if you want to get away from it all, and if you want to remove yourself from the busy-ness of urban life, Kauai is definitely the place to go. It ain’t called the Garden Isle for nothin’ – sure the end of our trip had a little drama in the form of a tsunami warning and evacuation to higher ground and all but…we were still in Kauai.
Needless to say we were able to squeeze in some serious relaxation time between planning, reviewing schedules and goal setting for our business. However, as I have mentioned frequently in previous articles, I am hardly the personality type to “relax” by sitting next to some pool sipping pretty looking drinks with miniature paper umbrellas in them.
Rather, we relaxed by hiking and kayaking and swimming in flowing rivers and snorkeling over reefs and standing on the edge of immense canyons and crawling over ancient lava fields and going into caves and walking along mostly deserted, endless sandy beaches and whale watching and eating mounds of white rice covered with spam and fried eggs followed by shave ice and fresh papaya and…well, you get the picture.
The one thing we did not do was fish.
Now, I debated long and hard with myself about bringing one of my fly rods with me because I knew that of all the Hawaiian Islands, Kauai is THE island for both freshwater and saltwater flyfishing.
I also knew that there is a guide service on Kauai (www.bonefishkauai.com) that will take you out onto the flats for some bonefish flyfishing, which is supposed to rival that of the Florida Keys.
I was also acutely aware that Kauai is jam packed with Bass holding waters. Not just largemouth Bass but Smallmouths and ferocious Peacock Bass which are found in the more than 160 ponds, reservoirs, and holding basins as well as in portions of the nine rivers of the island. I also knew that Tom Christy is the guy to guide you if you want to go Bass fishing on the island (www.sportfishhawaii.com) though he does not guide specifically for fly-fishing and does not provide fly gear.
Yeah, I knew all that and more.
What I did not know was that we would kayak up rivers where massive, fly-ignorant Tilapia were lined up like salmon getting ready to return to their home waters.
Nor did I expect to see schools of two-foot long mullet hovering beneath bridges attacking every leaf that fell into the brackish waters.
Likewise, I did not anticipate snorkeling with barracuda and nervous schools of Jacks mere yards from the hotel beach.
Neither did I guess how my jaw would drop in amazement and how tears would well up in the corner of my eyes when I turned the corner and discovered the quantity and variety of fishing gear filling the sporting goods aisle of the local Wal-mart where my wife was busy clearing out the souvenir section.
Yeah, I left the fly rod at home but I still had a fishin’ adventure. And you can bet that when we return to Kauai (and we will) I will have the fly rod and I will have the right assortment of flies and I will know where to go and how to fish that area and I will have made the proper contacts and…I will have a large wild Hawaiian double shave ice with ice cream and red beans to celebrate the peacock bass that I will catch and…well you get the picture.
As if it needed confirming, I just confirmed a quirk in my personality that didn’t need confirming – I hate sitting still.
This revelation came about because I injured my back pretty seriously the other day and the chiropractor who worked miracles on it in the past insisted that I give it three days of near total rest interspersed with grueling stretch routines in order to get things back in alignment. So, all day Friday, I lay there with the heating pad on high, grimacing and staring at the ceiling until a little timer would go off indicating that it was time for me to roll carefully off the bed and force myself into these awkward positions that eventually got everything back into the proper alignment and proved to the neighbors that I have an almost unlimited repertoire of “colorful metaphors” at my disposal.
Now lying in bed all day might be a dream come true to some, but it is torture to me. It is even more torturous if the sun is out. Despite the current popularity of vampires and werewolves and other so-called night people, daytime always has and always will be the right time for me.
Nevertheless, I followed the docs orders and heeded my wife’s threats and stayed put.
However, by day two, I figured out a way to position my computer so that I could check e-mail, work on some articles and even surf the net while maintaining the ever important flat back position.
It was one of my little “surfin’ safaris” that led me to discover a highly entertaining series of fishing videos on YouTube. I had typed in some different phrases centering on the word “fishing” and eventually stumbled upon Matt Hayes, Mick Brown and the Great Rod Race.
The clips appeared to be segments from a British series in which these two affable English blokes raced along the length and breadth of the UK, in a van reminiscent of the Mystery Machine from Scooby Doo, in an effort to catch (and release) some thirty-five different species of fish in under thirty days. The target species ranged from the diminutive Stickleback to massive Salmon to Eels to Carp. They employed cane poles, baitcasting rigs, spinning rods, sling shots, pounds of dog food, tons of tackle, some funky things called bivies and, of course, fly rods.
Along the way, we were introduced to the oddly charming, somewhat eccentric but thoroughly British way of angling.
All in all, I could think of a thousand different, less educational ways I could have squandered my down time. So, aside from distracting me from the annoying throb in the small of my back, these sort videos taught me a ton of technique and tricks to use on those difficult days and… helped my stay still.
Perhaps the biggest lesson though was the fact that the Brits are total “gearheads” when it comes to angling. I thought I had too much stuff! My equipment inventory looks like the bargain bin at a second-hand store compared to the plethora of gear employed by our angling brethren across the pond. Wow!
It’s been twenty years since I last went to England. At that time I was more interested in wandering the halls of the Natural History Museum, climbing the steps of St Pauls Cathedral and sampling Guinness from the tap than perusing the aisles of the local Bait and Tackle but priorities change and it now appears that some lengthy conversations with the Secretary of the District Angling Society while leaning on the counter of a village Tackle Shoppe might be a great way to really connect with the heart and soul of the Island.
Next time you are down for the count…or just snowed in and wishin’ you were fishin’, check out Matt & Mick and then be sure to bookmark a segment so that when the Visa statement arrives and the Sweetie complains about the amount of hard-earned spent on “silly fishin’ stuff” you’ll have something to use in your defense.
So, my wife and I were barreling down the westbound 91 freeway today in our 27-foot long mobile animal hospital, gulping down foil wrapped food-like substances as we used our theoretical lunch hour to make up time between appointments when I saw the zig-zag dance of flashing blue and red lights about ¾ of a mile ahead of us.
In SoCal that usually means that the Highway Patrol is running a traffic break.
In case you are unfamiliar with such things, a traffic break is a technique that allows the CHP to create a temporary safe space in the endless flow of traffic so that the dauntless CalTrans workers can retrieve some object or cover some substance that presents a hazard to the motoring public.
The CHP car roars onto the freeway and then with full lights and sirens, begins to sashay back and forth across all eight lanes of traffic, daring anyone to pass them. Eventually everyone falls into place and then it is simply a matter of waiting to see if we will all come to a complete stop or just creep along at five miles per hour until whatever needs to be removed is removed.
Typically, the offending object is a wayward extension ladder from a work truck, or a mattress that someone was certain would stay on the roof of their car with a tie-down made from a pair of granny-knotted boot laces and a hank of the protective plastic overwrap held firmly in the driver’s left hand. Occasionally, the objects are much more unusual and offer some relief – in a perverse sort of way — to the frustration of coming to a complete stand still on a major highway. I have personally seen a 26-foot Boston Whaler complete with dual outboards, a stack of wooden pallets, numerous orange Big Wheel tricycles, the blade for a bulldozer and a kitchen table sitting where they ought not be.
Whatever the object, it is usually retrieved, pushed, pulled, scooped, scraped or sanded down in mere moments and then traffic roars back to life the way stock cars do when the yellow flag gets lifted at a Nascar event.
In any event, as soon as I saw the flashing lights today, I knew we were gonna be late.
Not that I minded so much. The precious seconds at a standstill gave me enough time to finish my meal without accidentally ingesting bits of foil and to glance over to the right side of the road to study and daydream about the section of the Santa Ana River that runs parallel to the highway at that point.
You see, there is about a three-mile section of river there that has the potential to be a fly casters dream. Were it anywhere else, there would be a mom & pop fly shop somewhere on the bank with guys in waders lunching on the front porch, savoring coffee and homemade apple pie and swapping stories of the one that broke off just before it got to net. Were it anywhere else, local clubs would be diligently and lovingly tending the banks and removing invasives. Were it anywhere else, magazines would have ads recommending guide services to it. Were it anywhere else, I wouldn’t have been sitting in traffic, staring at it and wishing I were fishing…
But circumstances being what they were, I sat there and opted to practice a little river reading over pontificating to my long-suffering wife on the bumper sticker slogan plastered on the SMART car in front of us. So, in the few moments that we were stopped I noticed a fast main channel with an excellent drift past sand bars and over gravel beds. I noticed pockets of slower water and undercuts. I saw numerous boulders offering shelter and opportunity from within the main flow. I noted that the brush was beat down from recent storms and there were a couple of snags where fish might sit. I noticed the foam lines and how bits of debris moved as they rode the current and lastly, I noticed the posted sign warning that it is an area that is off limits to fishing.
That last thing, the no fishing sign bugged me. I don’t know why it is there. Believe me, there are far worse spots that ought to be off limits but where we regularly “fling some string”. This section of the Santa Ana appears to be a picture perfect place to practice a little urban fly fishing – not picture perfect as in those stunning shots you see in magazines — get real, this is SoCal: A major freeway runs parallel just yards from it and concrete and chain link line the banks. I mean picture perfect in the sense that it has many, if not most, of the elements that make it the kind of place where fish are found and where anglers want to fish but it is closed.
It seems like a waste of good water to not be able to fish that section of river.
…Predictably, the flashing lights edged over to the right shoulder and traffic began inching then lurching then speeding forward. The cause for the delay this time, turned out to be a solo spin-out who, despite the scattered bits of plastic fender still littering the roadway appeared to be shaken but healthy.
Through careful and judicious use of lane changes, speed limits and knowledge that the CHP officer on duty was parked a few miles back lecturing a twenty-something about driving and cell phone use, we were not late to our next appointment.
In fact, I arrived somewhat refreshed, having taken a little three-minute mental fly-fishing vacation on the way to our destination.
I am going to have to do a little investigative snooping though – I’ll keep you posted.
In case you haven’t heard, SoCal has been under “storm watch” for the last couple of weeks, which means… it has been raining and the fishing has been lousy.
I know that sounds trite to those of you reading this after shoveling three feet of heavy off the driveway and it’s easy to think we are just a bunch of pansies getting worked up over a little bit of water, but the reality of the situation is that despite what the old song says or what the common perception of SoCal weather is… it rains here and it rains hard – just not often. The standing state record for maximum rainfall in a 24-hr. period (occurred in 1943 just a few miles from downtown L.A.) topped out at 26.12 inches – yeah, over an inch and hour for 24 hours straight. That’s a lot of water for anywhere.
Now I’ll grant that comparably speaking, SoCal winter temps ARE milder than most other areas of the country – rarely has anyone had their nipples freeze solid just from removing their shirt at a local football game, like say, in Green Bay. And the fact is that the lowest recorded temperature for downtown Los Angeles, 28 degrees, has only occurred three times since recording began in the 1870’s, but unless you’ve lived here, it would be wise not to underestimate what our cold, wet, winter storms can do.
Every couple of years, and this appears to be one of them, we experience a series of truly wicked storms that hammer the region in a short, intense period of time and generally jack things up in a pretty royal fashion.
Forget about trying to fish the L.A. River. They’ve got helicopters plucking stranded transients and wayward German Shepherds from mid-stream bridge abutments while uprooted trees and battered shopping carts go tumbling past at some 35 miles per hour – all stuff that can seriously hamper the back cast or foul the drift.
Nor is it a good idea to surf fish right now. The coastal waters are a surging, pounding, fetid brew of bacteria, toxins and pollutants sprinkled with many tons of urban debris that inundate and impale the beach, and anyone fool enough to be standing there, with each set of breakers.
Likewise, most of the local urban lakes resemble bogs more than lakes due to the floating mats of leaves and half-submerged tree limbs washed into them from the surrounding park spaces. Better to tie on a piece of yarn and practice casting in the now clean grass then to risk nicking the new fly line on all of the debris in the water.
Yet, as they say, this too shall pass. In fact, in the big scheme of things, SoCal is doin’ all right. Sure, the rains are here and it is inconvenient from the urban angling perspective but there’s really nothing to complain about…except, maybe my friend, Ray.
You see, the other night when we finally got a break in the weather, Ray and his wife began texting me while I was attending a very important function. It seems that they had snuck off to Anaheim Lakes to take advantage of some heavy stocking there last week.
The messages went something like this:
“just got #7”
“oop, make that #8 & #9”
“4-pounder”
“Hot chocolate & fire…opp, bobber movin’ again”
“6-pounder”
It turns out that the privately operated lakes at Anaheim Lakes had come through the storms quite nicely and have (make that had – unless those text messages were bogus) some sizeable stocked Rainbow Trout that are hitting top and bottom.
So, as they say, every cloud has a silver lining and it looks like Anaheim Lakes might be the silver lining for the SoCal urban angler during this stormy season.
As for me, I’m hoping that the silver lining to all my goading and chiding of Ray and his wife is that we get to taste some of that trout.
If you watched even a brief portion of the 2010 Rose Parade or Rose Bowl Football game (the outcome of which delighted my OSU alumni bride), you probably saw those striking wide angle shots of the San Gabriel Mountains sitting majestically behind Pasadena.
Without going into a full-blown SoCal geography lesson, suffice it to say that those picturesque mountains are both a blessing and a curse to the L.A. basin.
The curse comes from the fact that the San Gabriels (and their sister range, the San Bernardinos) act as a barrier to regional air flow patterns and thus trap airborne particulates and such during certain times of the year, contributing to the smog problem for which L.A. is infamous.
The blessing comes from the fact that the San Gabriels act as a barrier to regional air flow patterns and cause the moisture-laden winter winds blowing off the Pacific Ocean to dump their precious liquid cargo in the form of rain as the push over the range. This is why the mountains are lush and green on one side and dusty and dry on the other – classic textbook rain shadow meteorology.
The upshot of all this for the urban angler is: the San Gabriel River. All that water has to go somewhere and somewhere just happens to be down the canyons and gullies of the mountains and through the heart of the greater L.A. basin. The San Gabriel Riveris a magnificent and complex system of tributaries that drain an area of roughly 640 square miles and flow some 60-odd miles before emptying into the Pacific.
Along the way she morphs from a network of scenic mountain streams to a drab, urbanized concrete lined channel. She passes through a dozen or more cities and varies from a trickle to a raging torrent, again, depending upon the time of year.
The raging torrent thing is one of the reasons the Army Corps of Engineers was charged with building the concrete channel through the more heavily populated portions of the river’s path. Study the historical records of SoCal and you will read of massive and terrible episodes of flooding. The Corps of Engineers built a way to move as much water away from homes and businesses and to the ocean as fast as possible.
They did their job and they did it well. Along the way though, some would argue that they tamed the life out of a huge stretch of the river – collateral damage in the struggle to keep SoCal safe from the ravages of wild water.
Most folks, in fact, tens of thousands of folks, drive by the arrow-straight, graffiti-covered, urban portion of the channel every day and assume that L.A. has no natural rivers.
Drive a few miles up in to the mountains however, and the more rugged side of the river starts to reveal herself, though she is likely to be badly scarred and abused from the uncouth hordes who assume that paved roads equate to maid service and who have no qualms about throwing dirty diapers, left over fast food wrappers and beer bottles in to the river — collateral damage to the wild waters from the ravages of SoCalifornians.
Hike a few more miles back into the hills though and you will discover lots of fishable waters populated with a mixed population of rainbow troutand brown trout but without the dangers of broken glass and used hypodermic needles – uncouth hordes tend to flock to “nature”, just not too far into nature, especially if it means no asphalt.
Up in those higher stretches of water, collateral damage comes directly from nature itself. Those same seasonal downpours so dreaded in the lower elevations, tear up banks, push down trees and roll boulders along that portion of the river too, it’s just that nobody loses a back yard or has their warehouse inventory washed away.
Up there, the cycle of apparent destruction brings with it certain collateral benefits. The surging waters push all of the debris and detritus downstream thus cleansing the river. They also push fish that have been sequestered far back in the quiet pools of the upper tributaries downstream to replenish the more accessible reaches and thus (hopefully) to the flies attached to the end of our lines.
So next year, while the world has its attention turned toward the flowers and footballs of Pasadena, you now know that their will be some urban anglers up in those picture perfect San Gabriel mountains pulling out ‘bows and browns to get the year started off right.
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So, I have this friend named Chuck.
