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My Blog: Eagle River Ramblings

From my home on the bank of the Eagle River in Colorado, I present to you a collection of ramblings, rants and reflections on fly fishing.

"Three Fates, the Highwaymen and a Bobber" 2021 Honorable Mention award winner Rocky Mountain Outdoor Writers and Photographers.

5/21/2019

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Three Fates, the Highwaymen & a Bobber.                                                                  1848 words


 It takes a deliberately focused effort to create an angler. Kids won’t start to learn about the sport unless they have been introduced to the game. Luckily the path alloted to me by the Fates has been filled with angling adventures. Our father introduced my brothers and me to fishing at a young age. We learned to stretch a line with bobber and bait. I can’t remember my first fish. Fishing has just always been there.
 Later in life and longing for more than a bobber could deliver I embraced fly fishing. There was nothing classy or sophisticated about baitfishing. Brutish and clunky it created the appetite I needed to curb. Like comparing the Bolshoi to breakdancing fly fishing came along and displaced my old fishing habits.
 Memories of angling in my youth were highlighted by road trips in a VW van with farting dogs, .25 cent Mcdonald’s hamburgers and Interstate rest rooms, sorry Mom. The van was filled with music and the background radio popcorn you get from poor reception. Those lyrics still echo in my ears today. 
 Unable to anticipate or decipher the how long my string of life may last I embrace every opportunity to build upon my fishing adventures. My path has followed a learning curve from bobber to fly and back again. The music influences of my youth have formed the foundations for my playlist today. So I thank my parents for taking us to water and fostering the desire for angling my brothers and I still share together.

Three Fates.
 All freshmen at Wabash College are required to take a series of Cultures and Traditions(C&T) classes. It is a liberal arts approach that is seldom appreciated today. (One testament to the quality of outdoorsmen Wabash College produces would be the prominent photographer, writer and guide Brian Grossenbacher. We attended Wabash with two overlapping years.)
 During the first C&T class Greek mythology introduces a tale of three sisters Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos, the Three Fates. Myths told over hundreds of years described the women as the daughters of Zeus. And the three wielded great powers over mortals assigning destiny to individuals. 
 Mortals lived along a “String of Life” that was spun, measured and cut buy these three. Clotho spun the thread of life. Lachesis measured the length of your string. And Atropos cuts the string of life. So powerful are the destinies assigned by these three sisters even Zeus couldn’t alter the destiny assigned to a mortal by the Three Fates. 
 My brothers and I began as bait fishermen, worms, crickets and leeches. We were well adept at catching fish with food. We even learned to use human food for a nontraditional bait like hotdog chunks for catfish.  When life prompted a change in location I found fly fishing in the mountains of Colorado. I liked everything about the sport. Quickly baitfishing was abandoned and fly fishing was embraced. Since then I have waded freshwater and saltwater exclusively with a fly rod and a weight forward fly line. 

The Highwaymen
 As kids I remember gathering around a little television in the first house we lived in as a full family of five. My younger brother and I laying on the shag carpet needed to remain quiet so dad could hear the band playing. He would call all three of us, David, myself and Daniel in order of age, to watch a variety of music on tv from Austin City Limits to PBS broadcasts and the Opry. Haunting performances that formed the base for my music appreciation today.
 I remember a group of four men that really excited my dad and still do. One wore his hair in two long braids and a red banadana. His voice seemed to pause and hitch just a little differently than the other three. And there was poetry in the air when he sang. He was the Poet. The next man with a scruffy, dark beard wore a big, cowboy hat. His leather vest made him look like a gunslinger about to draw down on Audie Murphy. He was the Outlaw. Then a man dressed all in black. I had never seen anyone but our preacher dressed that way. So he must be a holy man, I thought. He was not exactly a Preacher. The last man seemed young. Dad said he was a smart man, a Rhodes Scholar. I thought he looked like the people who taught at the university with my father. So I called him the Professor.
 My favorite was always the Poet, Willie. And he still is today. The Outlaw, Waylon made cowboys cool. That Preacher, Johnny was far from the holy man I mistook him for. But his voice  could run the devil out of a room like no other. Never understood the Professor, Kris as a kid. I do now. These men will forever be known as the Highwaymen.
 The VW van with a white top and red body looked like the red and white bobbers dad taught us to fish with when we were little. Dad piled my brothers and me into the van and he took us to water. Not a devoted angler by any means he gave us the chance to be enamored with fishing for life.
 He drove us to local spots, Rooney’s Farm, Doc Swartz’s pond, Yoctangee Park Lake. But on long fishing trips to places like our cabin in Wisconsin we would fight for the seat by the wings. The small, tip-out glass windows, supposed to give you fresh air. The radio in the van was tuned for familiar voices. Dad would try to sing along in his off key tone to bands like Creedence Clearwater Revival, the Allman Brothers and the Grateful Dead. But when the Highwaymen came over the radio waves we had to close the wings and all sing along.
 Pure Ignorance Expeditions dad called them to baptismal waters where my brother and I expanded our range. An aluminum Grumman canoe delivered us across the Wisconsin river to quiet coves that held bullheads, bluegills and bullfrogs. It didn’t matter what we brought home. Dad never seemed to mind pulling out his fillet knife, touching up the edge and cleaning our catch. And we loved eating it all.
 We never filleted our catch. Too much was wasted cutting through rib bones and trimming away meat. Scaling, skinning and gutting, we cooked our catch whole. We learned to separate flesh from bone with a fork over a dinner plate.
 Waylon is gone now. Johnny has left us too. Both achieving immortality through music and verse. Willie, already immortal, clutching the same guitar as always still enchants us with his songs. And Kris continues to entertain us in movies, television and on stage, an immortality of sorts. Their lives having lived far beyond the string the Fates allowed. They seem to have done what the almighty Zeus could not.

A Bobber
 Bobbers were our learning ground as a young kid. Dad’s tool of preference. He taught us how to put it on the line with the little brass hooks that were on a spring to keep them taunt. We would watch him rig up. He taught us how to cast a bobber with a Zebco 33. We learned how to drift and how to read a bobber that was swimming. There is a Zen achieved when watching a bobber, suspended between expectation and anticipation. My Dad could sit there for hours watching a bobber if there was a hook underneath it even better but not necessary.
 There was a time when my younger brother reeling in his line with vigor, the red and white bobber pulsing across the surface, was engulfed by a voracious Northern Pike. The beast breached the surface, attacked the plastic ball and severed the line all in one motion. We sat there wide-eyed, slack-jawed and more motivated than ever. Dad never showed us that with a bobber.
 Nothing fancy here either when it came time to us fishing with a bobber. No stick and cork with pinstripe paint and flashy finishes. Too expensive for dad to buy and watch us wrap around a overhanging limb. It was the cheap red and white style you always find rolling around in the bottom of tackle boxes. When we did have a fancy cork it was because we found it in a stick pile or washed up on shore. We scavenged for any fishing gear we could when we were kids.
 Bluegills were a favorite, they always meant a fish fry. When we timed it right we would hammer the bluegills on their buried tire looking beds. If one of us inadvertently cast our bobber too near the cattails a largemouth bass would give us a huge thrill. If we kept them from wrapping us up in the weeds.
  Watching my brother’s bobber with more attention than my own we would call set for each other. Now as a professional fly fishing guide I watch my client’s strike indicator (Snooty fly anglers can’t call them bobbers, too uncooth, too redneck. Bobbers are for bait fishers.) calling “Set!” like I did for my brother. And Dad did for us. The attention given to a bobber as a kid now rewards me as an adult.
 These days you will find me frequently with a strike indicator in my jacket. Like a kid who found a bobber wrapped around a tree branch hanging in the breeze. And he put it in his pocket. A strike indicator helps me turn any fly fisher into a productive angler. Strike indicators or bobbers, call them what you will, nymph fishing has turned them into an accessory all fly anglers purchase. 
 Fishing with a strike indicator allows me to help my client work through a section of river. It’s as close to a sure thing as I can find. Easy to present, easier to detect and a fairly understood concept even before the trip begins. A strike indicator eases the anxiety and intimidation some anglers associate with nymph fishing. 

In the End
 Most anglers don’t honor the time given by the Fates. Planning fishing trips with good intentions for crossing items off life lists that are never attained. Whether you see yourself as the Poet, the Outlaw, the Preacher or the Professor the best advice would be to listen to the verses of the Highwaymen. Fish a bobber. Take road trips and create angling adventures. 
 Fishing remains the common activity my brothers and I continue to build memories around regularly. No longer limited to the size of the pond, how far we can ride our bikes or what bait we can scavenge our angling adventures today continue to enrich our lives. 
  When Atropos wields her scissors and severs my string of life it will be a weight forward flyline the fate will cut. The words of the Highwaymen will be echoing in my deaf ears while I watch a bobber on a pond. And it might not even have a hook.


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My regular Blog posts are featured on Vail Valley Anglers website under the Shoptalk Blog.  The following piece was published in The Pointing Dog Journal magazine and also won a First Place award from the Rocky Mountain Outdoor Writers and Photographers

10/23/2018

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Opening Day

 Each hunting season arrives with the first breaths of fall. My parents come every year for the opening day of bird season, bringing an English Setter who travels with the extravagance of a prince on safari. Arriving from about a hundred yards above sea level and hunting just under 10,000 feet in elevation, their journey from the Appalachian hills of southern Ohio to the Rocky Mountains of Colorado is a constant climb. Under a bathing yellow light filtered through golden aspen leaves, we hunt our dogs. The promise of points, the assurance of heavy boots and the possibility each footstep contains push us to endure for hidden within the boundaries of White River National Forest are numerous opportunities for a wingshooter and hound to chase wild birds on public land.
 
 We hunt Dusky Grouse, my father and I, in the high country behind pointing dogs, animals with wit and grace. Blues as they are often called are found in air so thin your shot pattern whistles and the flush of grouse wings beats against your chest. My Dad’s recent autumns afield have been behind English Setters, poking holes in tree branches and shooting at woodcock. A slow evolution from southern Ohio coon hunter into a well-traveled upland hunter, he seems to have enjoyed the transition. I remember my father’s ink-black hair from my youth, his dark beard catching chowder like ceiling paint dripped on a velvet Elvis. The same bright eyes sparkle with light beneath a salted gray now. The same grayed coat of his English Setter, Max. He sports the colors well with the poignant reverence of a seasoned college professor. And, as I reflect upon our time in the field I begin to see the thin pinstripe brushstrokes of white now streaking through my facial hair with an increasing regularity.

 On National Forest land with alpine creeks choked into pools by beaver and willows, we hunt snipe. Most scoff when we divulge our targeted quarry as the more recognized “fictional” bird of childhood pranks. Snipe migrate south from northern climes, and we prove to be the first guns to test their speed as the birds hold tight for points from my Brittany, Lola. The telltale “scaipe” in their voice comes as a welcomed call when received behind a pointing dog. Liberal limits of Wilson’s Snipe allow numerous shots afield for the acrobatic little birds with our 20 gauge shotguns--a shooter’s delight. Banking back and forth with hummingbird speed on the initial flush, these handfuls of feathers quickly create space between hunter and fleeing bird--all the while shouting their call.

 The Columbian Sharp-tailed Grouse provides a welcomed option for our game bag. The grassy, rolling hills contrast sharply with the Blue Grouse habitats at lung-searing elevations.  Special permits allow access during weekends and holidays, giving us the impression of solitude in a normally congested area. In Colorado, acquiring a mixed bag of wild, Colorado birds while hunting exclusively on public lands remains a task not easily achieved but honestly attainable.

 Opening day births traditions--both new and old--from hunts past. As a vital component to our first day afield, we drive into Minturn for a mid-day breakfast. The diner shows its age--with bits of vintage memorabilia all around. The plywood Marilyn Monroe and James Dean out front greet customers with their empty, cutout faces. We order from memory--a menu merely passes the time. Huevos rancheros with jalapenos is always my decision--despite repeated mental debate. Boos Burrito lands upon my father’s plate, a local favorite at the Turntable. His extra plate of hash-browns seem unnecessary but are always gone when he finishes.
 We laugh and talk, reminisce on hunts past and how the dogs performed today.  The toy train will circle the ceiling or it might not be running--it really doesn’t matter--we know it is there. The waitresses are icons of the little, mountain town. Known by all, they could run for mayor and win on facial recognition alone. As constants in this ever-changing world, their slow shuffle speed brings comfort to our souls, knowing some things remain the same. The mountains, the wild birds and our affection for pointing breeds are constant too, but the brief glimpse of light our lives illuminate upon this earth is the changing factor we cannot control. And I know that one day I will sit here alone.

 Amidst the rocky reaches of Colorado’s high country, deeply entrenched in public lands our pointers strive for scent following their instinctive drive for upland birds. And we immerse ourselves in the moment. I bask in the company of the one who opened the passageway to the outdoors for me. We both live for the day that arrived with the sun and will regret nothing tomorrow, for today on Opening Day we have chosen to truly live. And, tomorrow I’m going shopping with Mom.


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You gotta start somewhere...

3/29/2015

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 After a bit of provocation it seems that I have buckled to the social media world and have created a Blog!
I resisted the encouragements of others believing "I don't want to consume my time writing for free..." However after some soul searching and some incredibly enjoyable reading I have found on the pages of other anglers' blogsites I have taken the plunge. Taking a little bit of time to refrain from piling kudos upon the others' sites I will merely comment that my blog will cover a lot of aspects of the fly fishing world. Travel and destinations, fly fishing tips, updates on the state of the industry and occasionally product reviews will be the focus of my ramblings. I am sure other perspectives will permeate my words as well. But for now I hope to introduce you to the current conditions around my home waters.
 
 Winter has released her grip somewhat prematurely along the Eagle River. Water is gaining purchase on recently unfrozen banks as the run-off begins to roar. Typical off colored water below Wolcott has predominated the conditions lately. The upper Eagle River Valley, while still holding snow in shaded draws, is waking up to the warmth of Spring as well. Giant midges and healthy BWOs are filling the atmosphere from Gypsum to Edwards. Clusters of midges tumble behind every riverbed boulder that pierces the surface creating an eddy for orgies. While the trout are not focused on the surface, yet, they are gorging themselves on nymphs all day and emergers come mid-afternoon.

Those of us who never really place all of our rods in storage, even in the dead of winter, the Spring has been upon us for a while now. Others are just brushing the dust off their fly vest and storing their ski poles to begin the summer focus. My fly shop, Fly Fishing Outfitters, has seen a steady stream of clients and local anglers pouring through the door since the longer days of sunlight began filling the calendar. The fly bins have been uncharacteristically low for this time of year.

Anglers are not just focusing on coldwater trout that are waking up to the increase of bugs and water temperature. Versatile fly anglers have broken out their stout fly rods to ply the shallow bays of reservoirs like Harvey Gap, Rifle Gap and Stagecoach Reservoir for Northern Pike. The toothy water-wolves are returning to the warm sun-drenched shallows to spawn. Most of the larger females are looking to grab a bite to eat before their focus on reproduction. Check out my latest published fly fishing article in Southwest Fly Fishing on Stagecoach Reservoir, Colorado and fly fishing for pike (March/April 2015). Carp anglers along the front range are plucking some rather large examples of the golden scaled hoovers under our abundant blue-sky days. Brownlining carp in urban waters can provide an angler the warm weather boost to get their casting into shape. No matter where you stretch your line the waters of Colorado are warming up and waiting for you.

Spring is here so get out on the water, just like this Blog, you gotta start somewhere.

Sal.


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    Michael Salomone

    Fly Fishing Guide, wade fishing specialist.
    State of Colorado certified river guide.
    Orvis endorsed fly fishing guide 2002-2016.
    Children's fly fishing program designer.
    Published fly fishing writer.

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