Fly Fish Chick

I’ll just take the rainbow.

Sorry for the radio silence here on FFC. I was home in Austin for one little ole week, and I was in 100% mommy-mode.

Little Chick is officialy at sleepaway camp for the first time ever…..ah!! (No tears, no tears.)

So now I am back in Montana where the rivers are high and my internet connection is slow. Bear with me while I juggle fishing and hand-cranking this computer to locate the world wide web.

I’m headed back to the river with my mother today so I’d better dash away for now and get ready. I will send a more colorful report when I figure out how to load pictures on this computer. Ciao for now….

I returned home last night from an fantastic week in Montana, floating both The Smith and The Missouri. Despite a mid-June snowstorm and incredibly fast moving rivers, our group caught fish and laughed so hard we hurt ourselves. I’m still wrestling with reality so I will have to panel back later with a more detailed report. In the meantime…

My parents have a long standing love affair with The Smith River in Montana. They have floated it every year for the last decade, maybe longer. I used to give them unmitigated grief that I was never invited to join them. I would hear the stories. See the pictures. Watch the videos. But I was never invited.

Eventually I wore them down and they did invite me. Only I was 8 months pregnant, so needless to say I couldn’t make the trip. But thanks anyway, yall!

A few years later they invited me again, but I was recovering from a car accident at the time and had just been told I needed back surgery. Again, going to have to decline. But hey, no really, thanks for asking. Appreciate it!

You can imagine it became quite the family joke.

Until two years ago. They finally extended me an invitation to join their Smith trip when I was both able-bodied and unpregnant. Heaven!! 60 miles of water, five days of fishing, four nights of camping. Just the transcendental soul-scrubbing adventure I needed at the time.

And it was totally sublime. The weather was great. The scenery was great. The laughs—ha! The campfire life, dreamy. I loved it all. I could go on and on about the fishing and the camaraderie and the scenery. But I think I am going to focus on the latrines.

At the outset, our venerable outfitter gave his traditional speech about the outdoor loo. The advice was simple, “Don’t look down and enjoy the view.”

Logically I understood what he was telling me. At each spot they had selected the most prime real estate for the al fresca toilet-box. From that particular vantage point you enjoyed the best views of the canyon. Yeah yeah yeah, whatever. If you say so. But I was still pretty much ‘all-business’ when it came to the communal outdoor toilet-box.

And as for not looking down? Ugh! Why did he have to say that? Of course the first thing I did was look down. Egads! Quel horeur! My eyes! My eyes! What have these people been eating? And holy shit, we’re all on the same trip! Did I eat that too?

It wasn’t until the last night that I caught the magic of the Smith River latrines. It was the most gorgeous campsite, with the best spot for the toilet-box. I was so wind-burned and sun-burned and gamey by that point that I was pretty loosey goosey in general. I had long since given up looking down into the toilet-box. You could hear nothing but roaring river water and endless laughter. And while I was there at the latrine, enjoying the sounds of fish, friends and family, an eagle came gliding by.

Breathtaking.

A few weeks after the trip I had to give a speech at an Executive Womens conference up in Dallas. I think I was supposed to inspire them in their careers and help them with strategic planning. There I was in a hotel ballroom with a headset mic and about one hundred bright-eyed, bushy-tailed women hanging on my every word. I couldn’t help it. I had to call an audible. I abandoned my planned presentation and started telling them about my trip on the Smith. All about how it took a decade to navigate pregnancy and work and divorce and motherhood just to be able to go. All about the fishing and the camaraderie and the scenery.

And of course I had to tell them about the latrines. My mistake of glancing down. The views. The eagle. And off the cuff I concluded with, “So I suppose that whether we are talking about Life, The Workplace or Outdoor Latrines, my advice is the same. You have to remember to slow down to enjoy the view. Remember that blessings come in the most unexpected places. And don’t ever involve yourself in other people’s shit.”

After the session, a woman from the board called me aside to talk. Uh oh. I was pretty sure I was in trouble for saying the word “shit”. Hey, I was an outside consultant, what could they really do to me? Oh but this woman was a badass. In two years of working with this organization I’d never seen her smile. She was a dean of some really important college in California — suddenly I couldn’t remember which one. And she’d been on the cover of magazines. Oh damn, which magazines? Think. Think.

Well, she didn’t want to scold me for shit. She wanted to talk about fishing! She was a flyfisherman, an avid bird hunter, and she trained field trial dogs for competition. She had fished practically every river in the West that I’d ever heard of, plus I few I pretended to know when she named them. And in California. New England. New Zealand. South America. She’d fished everywhere.

Everywhere except The Smith River. Apparently it was her life-long dream and she wanted to hear every single detail of my trip. We talked for over two hours. It was one of those conversations that just makes you happy to be alive. That you will remember forever and someday write about on a blog. She was, in fact, a complete badass. And because of my story about outdoor toilets, I had her complete attention for the better part of an afternoon. Once again, the Smith River latrines brought an unexpected blessing.

I was never invited to speak at that conference again. But I have been invited to join family and friends on another Smith Trip! In fact, I leave for Montana later this morning, so you all behave yourselves while I’m away. I’ll try to come back with stories that don’t involve toilets and bodily functions. But hey, I’m not making any promises.

Catch you on the flipside.

Last night I was so cavalier, dare I say even a bit cocky. I falsely thought I was prepared to leave town tomorrow for seven days. Today is a much different story. I am crazed trying to get some last minute packing done, so I barely have a moment to spare, much less the brainpower to string two sentences together. Thank heavens faithful friends and readers were out fishing this weekend and sent me their pictures. Two saltwater adventures — both of which look like a hell of a good time. Enjoy.

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Friends in North Carolina who go by the online handles of Natural Fly and Fat Tire were tearing it up off the coast of North Carolina last weekend. They ventured to a wreck just about 10 miles from the beach and met up with a whole mess of Amber Jacks. Although given these hysterical pictures I think it best to refer to these brawny fish by their ’street’ name, Reef Donkeys. What do you think? I think I am dying to go fishing with these hotshot ne’er-do-wells.

Rumour has it their compadre Nacho Momma & crew were up in Virginia chasing cobia.

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Meanwhile just off the coast of Alabama, one of my most serious flyfishing mentors — who is way too serious an angler to have an online handle — was meatfishing for his supper.

Although early reports from the skillet reveal that frying fish on the grill doesn’t get the grease quite hot enough. I don’t know, still looks pretty tasty…

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These trips look just like the sort of good time that I should have been a part of — I mean, what the hell, boys? I have a blonde wig. I can work a skillet.

Okay, so only one of those statements is true. But we’ll talk more about that later. I just remembered one more thing I have to pack.

In my last post I blatantly stole a topic from FlyTalk because the comment thread was wildly entertaining and I just couldn’t resist moving the party over here to keep it going awhile longer. You all did not disappoint! Your comments have been thoughtful and dishy.

So it’s time for me to climb down off the fence and share my opinions. Although I think you will see, by nature, I am not that vehement about many of these issues one way or the other. Frankly it’s the dialogue about them that interests me more than reaching conclusion or defending a position. That said, here I go.

As for the original question, ‘What makes a fly a fly?’ My response is visceral, not scientific. I like the notion that a fly should be tied from all-natural materials that were once part of a living creature. But I have to admit I love a foam hopper. Or a black foam ant. So I’m letting those in. I don’t care for the gelatinous gummy things, they seem tacky. And nothing with metal discs or added satellite systems clinking around.

And more than one hook? I don’t even understand that. The Lone Star Brewery’s original Hall of Horns Museum in San Antonio had a wonderful collection of deformed animals that had been stuffed and mounted. Deer with drop-tynes coming out of the strangest places. A fly with more than one hook belongs in such a museum. Or on a spinning rod.

Moving on…there seems to be general agreement that ipods are a no-no while fishing. Interesting. Okay, some progress. Everyone’s getting along on this point. Lovely. A glimmer of consensus.

Unfortunately, yall are all wrong.

Perhaps we should break it down a bit further. I would never wade with an ipod. That’s just one more thing to deal with on my person. And I would not listen to an ipod on the boat with the earphones, any more than I would drive in my car using the earphones. That would be too isolating. Plus I am like Barbara Walters on a driftboat. I can get grown men talking and sharing. Drift Boat Confessions.

But I do like to take a little set of ipod speakers on my boat. That’s right, you heard me. Ipod speakers on the boat.

Now obviously I’m not blaring music. And I don’t play it when other boats/fisherman are around. But trust me friends, you can catch trout with some background music. I like floating down the river with Faron Young and vintage Buck Owens. I like to think about the pretty rainbow that was caught while I was rowing to James Brown. Or how a switch to some Willie Nelson was just the momentum change we needed to end a fishless dry spell.

And I am here to tell you Kelly Willis’ voice can literally make a hatch happen. One summer evening she literally sang the caddis into the air.

That is the word on ipods. Perhaps I should move a little more quickly through some of these other points…

Upstream, downstream, right hand in, left hand out, do the hokey pokie, turn yourself around. I don’t know, I’m no purist here. In fact, I actually love looking in front of the boat and eyeing the next chunk of juicy water. Downstream is all about the future. That appeals to me.

Obviously I love trout. I cut my teeth on freshwater fishing, but I have to say I am pretty hooked on (obsessed with?) bonefishing. I just like who I am when I’m out there on a salty flat. Saltwater fishing doesn’t seem to bring the weighty self-critical thoughts that trout fishing sometimes does. Life is just shiny and bright. And damn good.

I hope more and more saltwater is on my horizon. It’s certainly getting more and more of my mental real estate these days. Just last night I made an ISLAND playlist on my ipod. Sadly I have no salty trips planned, but hey, as I just read in ‘The River Why’ sometimes the time spent not fishing is just as important as time on the water.

Dries or nymphs? Dries. Dries. Dries. I learned to fish on dries and didn’t think there was another option for a long time. My mother is such a dry fly snob that if someone dares to suggest nymphs, she will set down her rod, cross her arms in protest and retire for the day.

That said, I am earnestly trying to learn to be a better nymph fisher. I will admit the first time I rigged up my own rod with two weighted flies, an indicator and split shot, my heart was ready to sink as well. Suddenly my line had the grace of a teenager’s smile with a mouth full of braces. But I got my ass kicked on the river that day and my respect began then and there. The more I have fished with anglers who can truly make magic happen with a nymph system, I get it. I really do. And, humbly, I am working on it myself.

But no bananas on the boat. Period.

As an aside, you should know bananas are very good if you are shooting a gun. They have nutrients that naturally improve hand-eye coordination. Curious how I know this?

When I was in high school some friends discovered that our very small, very conservative, all-girls prep school had a Rifle Team. Who knew? We were bored and decided to try out our Junior Year as a bit of a gag. I feel bad to this day because we all made the team and the three Goth girls who started it quit in protest.

We were excited because the team practiced on a nearby college campus — a surefire opportunity to meet cute fraternity boys. We would boldly traipse across their campus in our plaid kilts and saddle oxfords…carrying a rifle case. Can you imagine? After practice we’d dip into this nearby college dive bar. The barkeep was nice enough to serve minors without blinking an eye and would stash our target rifle behind the bar while we played the jukebox and drank beer in our high school uniforms.

But when we had an actual Rifle Meet, we were laser-focused. Our coach made us eat a banana 30 minutes before each round. I think it worked! In the regional finals we beat our brother school like a drum – a victory which turned out to be infinitely more gratifying than meeting any cute college boys. Which we never did. Well, at least not through the Rifle Team.

But I digress. Yes, if you touch the leader and get a visual of the fish it counts.

If more people had a low-key attitude such as this perhaps we wouldn’t have such a healthcare crisis in America. I think less stress is the answer. The cost of a monthly massage should be covered in the most basic health insurance plan. Problem solved.

I love the Godfather Trilogy as a complete package. If forced to choose the best of the three, I would say Godfather II. But there are scenes from the first that are sublime. When Michael returns to the house after the attempt on Vito’s life. His mouth starts to take on the shape, sound and cadence of his father’s. The restaurant scene as Michael stumbles though Italian then forcefully takes control in English.

And I have to say, I think Godfather III is just as it needed to be. Michael alone in that garden similar to his father when he died. But Vito died with his grandson, Michael was alone, having outlived his daughter. Ugh! So tragic and rich. I have no ill will for Godfather III as many people do. I think it was the perfect last panel in the triptych.

Which brings us to barbecue. Barbecue. As a young tot I grew up in Dallas and remember getting sliced beef brisket sandwiches at Peggy Sue’s Barbecue in Snyder Plaza. I was in heaven. I had no knowledge of other kinds of barbecue. I had no knowledge of any barbecue debate. I just loved a sliced brisket sandwich.

I was in the sixth grade when we moved to Tennessee. At one of my first sleepovers in Nashville, the girl’s parents offered to take us out for barbecue. Cheers from all the kids. The establishment was familiar in feel. Casual, hearty, rough around the edges. I was still clueless.

Nothing could have prepared me for the meat they placed before me. It was flesh-colored. Chopped fine. And the color of human flesh. And the sauce! Had they watered down the sauce? Why was it so thin?

Of course I had manners and didn’t make a stink, but hell if I didn’t tell my parents all about it the next day. And that’s when my father had to sit me down and have The Talk. I was no longer innocent and unspoiled in the ways of the world. Now I knew. The dirty truth. Pork Barbecue.

I avoided Tennessee barbecue for the most part. I would eat it only if the situation required me to do so in order to avoid being impolite. When I went off to college in North Carolina, the problem became more palpable. Every football game started with a pig on a spit at a fraternity house pre-party. My freshman year I read a wonderful piece by southern writer Roy Bount Jr about the great barbecue debate. I decided to get off the fence and take a stand. I was going to defend Texas Beef loud and proud.

And I did. Texas Beef or bust. I ruffled many feathers. And got very drunk at many UNC football games sucking on Bourbon & Coke, having had nothing to eat at my date’s pre-party.

But then something strange happened. Somewhere along the way. Something biological took over that defies logic or values. I developed an actual taste for pork barbecue. I really like it! Could it be there is just good and bad pork barbecue? Good and bad beef barbecue?

So my venom for pork barbecue has faded with time. Now that I am back in Texas I am covered up in all the beef brisket I can handle. And ironically nostalgia for my southern upbringing has placed pork barbecue up on a pedestal. Sort of the same way I revered beef barbecue when I lived away from Texas. So for me, I suppose barbecue really has less to do with culinary pride, and more to do with being a little bit homesick.

Either way you slice it – or chop it – the fiery barbecue debate has settled to a slow cooked simmer in my mind.

Texmex food on the other hand…don’t get me started. I fear I cannot even be polite on this topic. I’m glad all of you in other states love it so much, but please stop trying to imitate it. You can’t. Texmex food belongs in Texas. And when I visit Tennessee, Carolina, Georgia, New Orleans, or NYC the answer is No Thank You. No, I don’t want to try the new Mexican restaurant that just opened in your neighborhood. For heavens sake I get grouchy when I travel to Mexico because they can’t even get it right.

Texmex food belongs in Tejas. Period.

So while you chew on that, let me say once again how much I loved all of your responses in the previous post. Thanks to FlyTalk for letting me steal their idea and thanks to all of you for keeping the party going. On that note, Little Chick and I are out the door for some migas and bean & cheese breakfast tacos. And rest assured they will be proper refried beans. Not black beans.

Via con dios muchachos.

One thing I hope you’ve noticed about this blog is that I like to keep the overall tone positive. I try hard not to throw anyone under the bus except myself — which is hard because there are some real idiots out there who are practically begging me to mock them. But I’m not taking the bait– at least not in print. (Come find me around a campfire.)

Your comments seem to track along these positive lines as well, which I really appreciate. Granted I’m pretty sure some of you are hitting the sauce pretty hard when you write them (which I love of course!) but all the comments are funny, poignant and all-around a good read. Makes for some good clean fun, don’t you think?

That said, the boys over at Fly Talk have launched a debate that has caught my eye, so I thought I’d bring it over here for a change of pace. Their question is: What makes a fly a true fly? Does it have to be made of natural materials that were once part of a living creature? What about foam? Does it make a difference if they are tied or glued? Do “spoon flies” and gummy minnows count if you throw them on a flyrod?

So have at it. Give us your thoughts. A rare blessing from me to get more aggressive in the Fly Fish Chick comment thread. Shout it from the mountain top, tell us how you feel.

While we’re at it, let’s roll up our sleeves and cover some other touchy topics…

Would you listen to an ipod while fishing? (another Fly Talk debate)

Cast upstream only — or is downstream acceptable?

Freshwater or saltwater?

Dries or nymphs?

Are bananas really bad hoodoo on a fishing trip?

If you touch the leader and the fish unbuttons, does it count as a boated fish?

How do we solve America’s healthcare crisis?

What’s the best movie in the Godfather trilogy?

And once and for all, would the real BBQ please stand up….Texas Beef or Southern Pork?

Got anything else?…Throw it in the mix! Vent to your heart’s content. Be loud. Be nice. Anthony’s in charge of breaking up any fights and making sure no one says anything mean to me.

I’d say this pretty much describes my week so far. Just substitute the ‘acid’ flashback for the recurring vision (and associated cold sweats) of seeing 150 second-graders all bowling at precisely the same time.

Ah, the end-of-school bowling party.

Lest you think all I do is guzzle beer, chase Texas bands and pretend to know people who flyfish…let me take a moment to set the record straight. You see in my day-to-day life I’m actually a pretty good Homeroom Mom, so I volunteered to drive a carload of Little Chick’s classmates to the bowling party. Oh. My. Word. It was hysterical.

Little Lebowski Urban Achievers as far as the eye could see.

And yet, despite wrapping up the end of school party, we’re still not done! Oh, no no no, we are inching our way across the finish line with school this year. I’m still shuttling children and delivering popsicles. Yet in the midst of my chaos yesterday, Little Chick starts chiding me because I haven’t replaced our recycling bin. I backed over the old one awhile ago and splintered it into a million shards of blue plastic.

Suddenly Little Chick cared. Deeply. She sprung into action and called on her second-grade Earth Day education to create a mini recycling center and help save my environmental soul:

I thought it was pretty damn cute. She may have started the week as a Little Lebowski Urban Achiever, but she’s taken a definite turn toward Uppity Mountain Hippie.

It seemed like the prefect opportunity to have a lively chat about the world’s limited natural resources. So I pulled out this cool graphic depicting the global distribution of water:

I may as well have dropped a bowling ball on her foot. She moaned and groaned and rolled her eyes and throwing her hands in the air, she begged to be released from the whole conversation.

Oh well. For now I am just going to stick to driving, bowling and popsicles.

Okay, so we only saw two out of three on the river over Memorial Day. It was a straight-up, knock-it-back, hill country honkytonk holiday weekend. The trout were likely hunkered down low, shuddering in fear and mocking us all as we devolved into my favorite variety of the human species, The Hillbillius Redneckus.

Joke is on those snooty trout because it was a hell of a good time.

Make video montages at www.OneTrueMedia.com

If you have school-aged children you know what I mean. The centrifugal force that is hurling us all toward the end of the school year brings about enough activities and chaos to rival the holiday season. Spanish skits, zoo field trips, recitals, computer lab open house, last minute playdates, track and field day, ordering the summer camp trunk and ironing labels in all the camp clothes.

I’m in it big time.

Which means fishing is on the back burner for me for the time being. So I have to live vicariously through emails and phone calls of friends and family in Montana. To synthesize these multiple reports for you…well it’s pretty simple…

Three weeks from today. This bird flies west in three little ole weeks. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock…