Volume 11 • Issue 12 • December 2006

Looking To the Federation's Future

There was no formal program on tap since November is the month to take care of business in paying our membership dues and signing up for trout lease papers and fees, but as Vice-President Bill Elgin surveyed the situation, he led us into a casual, spontaneous discourse on a number of shared stories, pointers on fishing, and thoughts concerning our club and its members. Laughter blended with serious thoughts to produce a rather informative an thought provoking meeting.

Among one of the most enlivening items that emerged involved the Federation of Fly Fishers and a movement to create a new council apart from the existing Southern Council that would stretch from Florida across to most of the Texas coast, perhaps taking some member clubs from Texas that now exist in the Southern Council but would be transferred into the proposed new Gulf Coast Council. The exact process for such an emergence has not been solidified, but it is in the formative stage and was promoted by supporters at the October conclave of the Southern Council.

Lively discussion emerged among our club members putting forth the pro's and con's of creating a new council. Points made in favor of a reorganization included remarks that (1) many of the Texas fly-fishing clubs put a lot of emphasis on warm water and salt water fishing, whereas the Southern Council tends to put more emphasis on trout fishing; (2) a new council headquarters location would be more accessible than the Southern Council's facilities at Mountain Home, Arkansas; (3) small clubs would participate more actively in council affairs if paired up with closer Texas cities [examples--Houston, Dallas-Ft. Worth, Austin, and San Antonio] rather than the Southern Council's Mid-Western population centers [examples--Little Rock, Memphis, and Kansas City, and St. Louis].

Views supporting current membership in the Southern Council pointed out that (1) small clubs aren't necessarily left out in this council, that in fact, our own HCFF has had two individuals, Bob Miller voted Man of the Year in 1997 and Dr. Guy Harrison just this year voted Conservationist of the year; (2) our small club under Dr. Harrison's leadership has received significant funds from the Southern Council in support of the Guadalupe bass project with additional funds in the making; (3) though Mountain Home is somewhat hard to reach for council conclaves, there is no guarantee that a new council's headquarters would be an improvement since the new council would incorporate parts of Louisiana, Mississippi, and Florida; (4) the premise that the Southern Council places prime emphasis on trout fishing may be flawed since numerous acclaimed warm water locations resting in the Southern Council's territory draw enthusiastic fly fishers from places, whether nearby or distant.

The prospect of a new Gulf Coast Council drew obvious interest and seemed to inspire a fresh spark of enthusiasm for participation in the Federation of Fly Fishers' plans and activities. A show of hands by those in attendance indicated ten members of FFF were present. Our club membership dues need to be sent in to FFF by January 1, 2007. Two dollars per each individual membership will be subtracted from our club membership dues. If you are not a member, you might want to explore both the national FFF website at www.fedflyfishers.org and the Southern Council site at www.SouthernCouncilFFF.org . This organization is the only national fly-fishing organization that covers all aspects of the sport–warm water, cold water, salt water, lakes, ponds, fly tying, casting, techniques, conservation, restoration, education, and more. If you decide to join or haven't contacted Mike Andrews that you are a member, please do so. Then we can get our discount on the club' dues.

–M.A.

One for the Record–

Annual Christmas Party

By the time members receive this issue of The Back Cast, our club's annual Christmas Party may well have already taken place. Timing of this special event occurred before copy of December's newsletter could be written to cover this year's "live" sequence of activities and camaraderie. For the time being, at last count, around thirty persons had signed up to attend the popular affair, this year held at Rails Restaurant at the "Old Train Station" on Schreiner Street.

A gourmet menu offered a choice of pork tenderloin or breast of chicken entree with all the trimmings followed by pecan pie with caramel sauce.

An interesting activity for this year's event includes a "white elephant" drawing. Each party in attendance is to bring a small gift (couples, two gifts) wrapped to fit the season. After the meal, each person will draw a number to receive his or her gift. One might strongly suspect these "white elephants" would have a lot to do with fly-fishing. Neat idea!

Virgil Justice will either speak, play his sax, or play with some of his compadres.

After all of the good food, music, fun and frivolity, a short report from the board of directors will announce the nominees for the upcoming year's officers to be voted on at the January meeting.

The January newsletter will follow up on how all of the above pleasantries unfolded.

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[Over the years, your editor has invited members to submit articles or items of interest for inclusion in The Back Cast. From time to time, not often enough, a handful of our friends have responded, always with something well worth reading. This invitation is always open. Bob Miller was thoughtful enough to share an item that offers a different slant on our sport. . . .]

One of Bob's Favorites–
I enjoy looking for old books on fishing whenever I visit a used book store. These excerpts are from a book titled How To Catch Game Fish by Jack Lamb, written 70 years ago. Jack Lamb was a Texas fisherman hailing from Fort Worth. He wrote about fishing both with rod and reel and fly equipment–even a chapter on fishing for frogs with a fly rod. His book is available on Ebay for a reasonable price. It affords great reading on a cold winter day. ~ Bob Miller

What a Companion Means
–By Jack Lamb

There is something which no angler should be without. Not rods and reels and baits, but something at far greater import.It is a COMPANION. The glories of Nature and the unfolding panorama of the stream are too much for one to drink in alone. The never-to-be-repeated scenes which come before the angler's eyes should have someone to bear witness. For years my fishing was done alone, but the day dawned when I came to realize that neither the gurgling brook, the purling stream nor the rushing river were made wholly for my selfish pleasure.

Thus my companions sprang into being, and after all of these years, I well know what a comrade means. For years we were inseparable. . . Old Carlos, Old Ike, The Sarge, Dow, Mack and Cal. . . .

There is something ethereal in having a companion by your side to view Nature and understand it the same as you. Someone who can think and see in every quivering leaf, in every rippling stream and every flitting bird, something beyond the scope of man.

[Note how Mr. Lamb always capitalizes the word "Nature."–Bob Miller]

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From FFF ClubWire. . .

"Can You Hear Me Now?"
By Lee Weil
–Taken from the Long Island Flyrodders newsletter

Last week I fished the Housatonic River and was able to get up early enough (5:30 A.M.) to make a cup of quick camp coffee and hit the river before anyone else was stirring in the tents. As I made my way out into the river, I was struck by how beautiful the scene was–the sun coming up through the pines and the birds working the shoreline. It was such a peaceful moment that I just stood and appreciated the quiet solitude.

I fished for a while, catching a couple of ambitious little smallmouths, and when I turned to make a few casts in the opposite direction, I was surprised to see another angler just off to my left. He was nymphing a run behind me and was concentrating intensely. I watched as he hooked a fish, and after he released it, he looked up and smiled at me. I nodded and gave him a thumbs up before working my way slowly upstream. I skirted his water, giving him a wide berth, and he smiled again and waved.

I was impressed by the fact that he had entered the river and waded out without alerting me or the fish in that area, and also that he had acknowledged my courtesy. Without a word spoken between us, we had an understanding of respecting each other's space and serenity.

I thought about the disappointing lack of such respect on the part of some of our own club members. A few months ago, I received several complaints about one such member, a Connetquot angler who was having an extremely loud, prolonged conversation on his cell phone while on the river. Someone even went so far as to suggest that we prohibit the use of cell phones while fishing! Unbelievable as it may seem, it was not the first time this issue has come up. It's one thing to have your phone on in case of emergency (i.e. you might have a pregnant wife at home), but to be conducting business on the stream is rude and distracting to the other anglers. Fly fishing is an excellent way to relax and to leave the stress of the job, and I personally find it annoying to have my "quiet time" disrupted by a guy on the bank yelling, "Can you hear me now?" It's enough to make you want to grab the phone and pitch it underhand into the strike zone of Beat # 11. (A great mental image for me).

Another pet peeve (as long as I'm on my soap box) is the exuberance with which some anglers express their success when they catch a fish. Save the whoops and hollers for the Super Bowl touchdowns; we don't need to hear how big he was and what you caught him on from a half mile downstream.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

On Salem Pond
By Charlie Place
taken from the Connecticut Fly Fisherman's Assoc. newsletter

It was the last day of October and I was riding in a station wagon loaded with fishing gear and three expert spin fishermen. Their six fishing rods lay angled over the back seat, all rigged for stripers. I was sitting right behind the driver. A long, scaled, plastic lure dangled from the well-used rod leaning closest to me. The lure had an ink black back and a creamy white belly that sparkled as it swayed back and forth, caught by a single hook drawn through one of the rod's tarnished guides. Its large dark red eye, scarred from a previous battle, stared lifelessly. We went over a bump and the six rods bounced, filling the wagon with the sound of rattling, razor-sharp, treble hooks.

It spooked me a little. I'm not used to all this hardware. I'm used to the quiet swish of a fly rod and a single hook hidden under colorful feathers. I was spooked all right, but not as much as we all would be later.

We were headed for a salt pond on the coast. A call from the driver's friend had told us that Salem Pond was full of hungry stripers. I hadn't fished with these guys before, but they knew me from work and had invited me to go. With names like Catfish, Pennsylvania Slim and Fish Hound (AKA Chow Hound) there was no doubt that these were dedicated fishermen. That's not all. Sea Dog was coming later. Sea Dog was a legend. It was said, if you scratched him on the arm, fish scales would come off.

We were early, so we stopped at a well-known fast food restaurant, ordered, and found some seats. Except for Chow Hound . He sat alone. I asked, "What's up?"

"You don't want to know," Catfish answered. "We never let him sit with us because of what he eats," Slim said. "Why? What did he order?" I asked. "A pumpkin milkshake and a fish sandwich," Catfish answered. I just continued eating my burger and tried not to think about it.

Dinner was over and we all piled into the wagon. Another thirty minutes and we would be at the pond. Since Chow Hound was in the back seat with me, I was hoping that he wasn't prone to motion sickness.

Catfish's friend met us at the pond and gave us the layout. He told us where the fish were likely to be and where we could wade without getting into trouble. We were fishing an incoming tide. The one place we were to avoid was a salt marsh. "It looks like flats," he said, "but it's real muddy and more than one fisherman has gotten stuck waist deep in the muck, and drowned when the tide came in. Some have never been found. I have to go to work,"  he said suddenly. "Good luck."

The three spin fishermen were in the water in no time. Since I was a fly fisherman, I was slower getting ready. I had to get my rod out of the case, attach the reel, string up the rod, etc. While I was doing this a strange man appeared. He was a tall, slim man wearing a long black tattered trench coat. Underneath the trench coat, it looked like he was wearing old time long johns, th ones with the trap door. He smiled a toothless smile. His face was pale gray and leathery looking with deep dark circles under his eyes. His long gray matted hair hung on his shoulders. He smelled like wood smoke. "Mister?" he said, "Jack Lannturn here," in a deep raspy voice. "Hi," I answered nervously. "You wouldn't happen to have some matches?" he asked. I rummaged around in my fishing bag and came up with a book of matches. As I passed them to him, my hand brushed his. His hand was cold and rough and gave me a chill. "Thanks mister," Jack said as he turned and shuffled away.

"Jeez," I thought as I finished getting ready. "Homeless people out here?"

Catfish and Chow Hound had moved far out into the pond. Slim was a lot closer, so I decided to wade out and fish with him. Slim and I weren't catching anything, but we could see frightened baitfish leaping out of the water trying to avoid being eaten by the ravenous stripers. They were too far away for a cast, and the pond was too deep between them and us. It was a frustrating situation. I asked Slim if he thought Catfish and Chow Hound were catching anything. He said, "No, you would be able to hear Chow Hound yelling, 'Fish on!'"

It was only a half-hour before dark by the time Sea Dog arrived. He carried a cooler, a backpack, and an assortment of spinning rods to the edge of the pond. I was hoping there were some adult beverages in his cooler. Sea Dog waded out to where Slim and I were fishing. We asked where he had been.

"Everybody knows that striper fishing is night fishing," he said authoritatively. Slim pointed out the stripers that were feeding, but couldn't be reached.

"I'll take care of that,"Sea Dog said.  "Let me warm up for a while." We split up and fished for another hour or so. It was dark and the feeding stripers had refused to move any closer. Finally Sea Dog marched to shore. "I'll take care of that," he repeated.

While he was on land, I turned to look at the salt marsh. I had no plans to go anywhere near it. I was just curious. I noticed a soft red glow moving across the forbidden marsh. It pulsated slowly, like a coal from a fireplace. I strained my eyes to get a better look. I could see a silhouette of a man. A man wearing a trench coat, seemingly floating slowly across the salt bog, above the sucking mud, holding the glowing coal in front of him as he went. I closed my eyes for a few seconds in disbelief. When I opened them, he was gone.

Sea Dog was rushing through the water. He had a rod that looked like it was fifteen feet long. I could hear a chain rattling. "What the heck is that?" I asked.

"Chain mail," Sea Dog said in a determined voice. "I'm sending those stripers chain mail." He stopped about twenty feet below me. The wake his strong legs made lapped against my waders. He reared back and shot a long cast toward the distant stripers. You could hear the chain mails eerie rattle as it arched thirty feet beyond unsuspecting linesiders. The longest cast I had ever seen. Sea Dog began reeling, "Got one," he shouted. After a couple of minutes, he landed his fish.

"Striper?" I asked.

Sea Dog didn't answer. "Striper?" I called again.

"Half a striper," he answered, in a whisper.

"Half a striper?" I muttered to myself. Then I understood.

Something crashed into my leg. A chill shot up my s pine. The hair on my neck stood straight up. "No, no, no," I thought. I stood still, real still. My widened eyes darted about looking for a telltale fin. I thought about "Shark Week." I thought about my family. I thought about Poor Captain Quint sliding slowly down that Great White's throat. Something bumped my leg again. Slowly, I moved my shaking hand into my vest pocket and clutched my small flashlight. I took a deep breath and turned the light on. A horseshoe crab!" "It was a horseshoe crab!" I shouted.

"What!" Sea Dog said.

"Nothing," I answered, laughing with relief.

Catfish and Chow Hound were slowly moving toward us. Slim saw them and was reeling in. I was happy to be getting out of there. We stood in a circle, hip deep in the saltwater discussing our night's fishing. I told them about the glow in the marsh and the homeless guy. Sea Dog told them about the half striper. Despite his eating habits, Chow Hound is the smart one. "What are we standing here for?" he said. "Let's get the heck out of this water."

"One more cast," Sea Dog begged.

"Hurry up!" we all yelled at the same time.

Sea Dog shot his chain mail high into the air. "This is like being in a Stephen King movie," I thought.

"I got a sea gull or something,"Sea Dog shouted suddenly.

We all looked at his fishing rod. Sure enough, his line was straight up in the air and skyrocketing all over the place. His reel sang as the apparent gull took out line.

"No way," Catfish said, "Not a sea gull, at night."

We strained to see what it was, but it was too dark. All of a sudden, Sea Dog's chain mail dropped out of the blackness, making a tremendous splash as it hit the surface of the pond. He began reeling in. "Something is still on this line, and it's heavy," he said. We waited anxiously. Sea Dog finished reeling in whatever it was, then dragged it through the water with his rod until it floated in a heap in front of us. Slim reached down and carefully picked it up.

"It's some kind of a large rag," he said. Four flashlights illuminated the mystery cloth. Slim took the hooks out of it and shook out the water. He held it up at arm length. "Looks like a trench coat," he said.           

[Editor's note: This article came out in the November issue of ClubEd's monthly copy. It was apparently meant to be appropriate for Halloween. It is in this December issue of The Back Cast more as a novelty than anything else. The names of the characters are worth some  good chuckles, and the story does hold one's attention. Don't ask me what "chain mail" is.]

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 Special Announcements

The Christmas Dinner Party on December 6th will take the place of our normal club meeting date on the third Thursday. A short portion of the Christmas Party will devoted to club business and announcements, including the names of nominees for the upcoming year's officers that will be voted on at the January meeting.

At the November meeting, there was some discussion on the lack of posting on our club's website Message Board. It seems that some members have attempted to make posts but have not succeeded. Here are some steps that might help.(1) Get on our website at www.hcff.org and click on the Message Board  tab located on the home page; (2) Read the instructions at the top of the page and click on Registration Process-- then fill in the boxes. Once you have registered, you shouldn't have to register to make future posts; (3) Next, return to the Message Board and choose to click on either General Discussion or Fishing Reports ; There, click on New Topic if you are bringing up a new topic and a box should appear to type in your message;  or else click on the title of  previous post listed to make some comment related to that post. After the message of that post is revealed, if you care to make a comment on that topic, click on Reply to this message on the Options bar and write your comment in the box.

Give this a try. The advantage of using the Message Board on our website is that you can read the comments of all participants and tell more about what's going on in our club. Sending e-mails is great for getting word to specific persons with whom you wish to communicate, but is does not open up topics of interest or concern to anyone else other than the ones receiving your e-mail. The website's Message Board  is open to anyone who registers. It in fact, becomes a forum for all sorts of topics for anyone to have input. We are losing out by not using this tool that is available to our club. Check out the Message Board periodically. If this message gets across, we should have some interesting comments and discussions that will open up a new dimension for our club.