“ Feel by turns the bitter change of fierce extreams,
Extreams by change more fierce!”

John Milton 1604-1674, Paradise Lost

In my fly fisher life as must be the case in many sportsmen’s existence memories of sublime moments spent among summer’s last gasp flood the mind with the advent of Fall... Yosemite National Park and its mighty Merced River winding through rusty colored canyon walls, leaves floating on slower currents as resident rainbows rise to well tied mosquitos... Lake Tenaya and the endless smaller lakes now quiet and waiting for winters frozen breath. The park becomes a silent cathedral of damp smells and crystal clear waters alive with still hungry trout as the waterfall’s begin slowing down and millions of visitors hurry home with memories of bear cubs and flashing eagle wings...

Two Yosemite Fall moments are benchmarks in regard to it’s magic. One early morning wading the Merced River near El Portel I heard flapping wings and quickly glanced behind me as an immature Osprey gliding no more then four feet off the water gently flew over my head and back he glided closer to the easy flowing water looking for breakfast. On another occasion again wading the Merced closer to the Arch Rock entrance, deciding to break for lunch I moved near the rivers edge and was met with the loud rattle of a very healthy rattle snake curled up on a boulder that was my only path out of the water. We played a game of this land is my land for several minutes until I decided to find another path to that thermos of hot tea.

In the late 1960's I had the honor of pretending to be a cowboy on the fabled Texas King Ranch in a town called Electra that was named after one of the mythic cattle ranches owners daughters. My job was to help the young kids bottle feed baby cows and generally stay out of the way. One morning a kindly aging ranch hand took me to a bass pond and for three hours or so we stood watching small red and white bobbers dance around when hungry bass hit our worms. On the way back to the main house my new friend asked if I might like to ride a rip snorting real cowboy horse? Blackie had other ideas and quickly threw the San Francisco kid into the bass pond. I still recall the falling leaves sticking to my wet clothes as a group of passing wranglers yelled out at me, “ What ranch was that you said you worked for Dude?”

In The late 1970's while staying at a friends cabin not far from the town of Hamburg in upstate New York. I was alone as usual on a small stream packed with Brook Trout none larger then ten inches. A fine hatch was going off and I was in hog heaven having gently hooked and released two nice brookies. While my mind was busy thinking how lucky I was and my hands shaking with excitement! I dropped the only fly box I had with me that day and watched it disappear underneath a boulder that I could not get to... I sat on the stream edge and watched bright colored leaves flashing with the neon flesh of the resident brookies rising and diving.

Early Fall 2001 remote Alaskan homestead Lake Marie owned and operated by pioneer Alaskans the Wilson brother’s David and Johnny. My goal to catch and release King Salmon in the 30/50 pound range with a 5/6 weight Winston Bamboo Fly rod supplied by Glenn Brackett premier Bamboo rod master. After spending two days hooking and losing seven kings that ran 25/45 pounds in the company of well traveled spey rod armed fly fishers who watched my insane quest like Oprah at a cheeseburger festival. The piscatorial gods smiled as a nice 34 pound king was slowly guided to shore after a 35 minute fight and at the last second broke off into the waiting net of master guide John Wilson! I remember winters first cold rush as we made our way back to the lodge and tried for weeks to wipe the smile off my face. The unofficial world record I believe still stands and Glenn Brakett of Winston Bamboo still makes em tough as cold steel baby!

My first experience watching fly line unwind was as a seven year old in the early 1950's while accompanying my uncle Clyde on a family outing on the shores of the American River not far from Lake Tahoe. My uncle was accomplished and one of my first teachers, he was always including me and bless him helped me understand and respect the outdoors life. I was sitting in the warm sand watching his every move, when a Garter Snake quickly crawled across my young legs and I set a new land speed record as my laughing uncle who had been a distance runner failed to catch his nephew after a spirited 100 yard dash....

My time with the legendary Bamboo Rod maker Walton Powell on the Fall river was and still is a golden memory. Thanks to the Miller brothers out of Shingle town California I met Walt and spent several days on two occasions working the gin clear Fall. On the first trip with Page Miller we spent many hours gliding up and down the river without even a hint of trout. I was getting anxious as the trip was to become a feature article and looked as if no trout photos or action of any kind was in the cards. Walt’s stories about his old friend Bing Crosby and his time with Jimmy and Rosalind Carter were the best! But, no fish, no feature kept running through my simple mind. Then just as I was thinking oh well the man is in his mid eighties and so on, slam Walt had a nice 16 inch rainbow hooked and quickly to the net. When we pulled into the dock, I still remember Walt standing next to his gear with rusty colored Fall leaves blowing all around and a big smile on his face... I cherish my time with the Lord Of The Flies.

Click Here for this month's story line of

“ ADVENTURES OF FLETCHER QUILL “