Memorial Day

Grilling London Broil, per my wife’s instructions (hot fire; 10 minutes, turn, 10 minutes, eat). Wife, daughter and dog have retreated inside to escape the July-like heat. (Other daughter is visiting friends.) I’m overseeing the grill and testing to see if the iPad works as well as advertised.

Memorial Day. I didn’t serve in the military but like to think that I would have if called upon. I consider myself a patriot but not really a flag waver. I love the country, and want it defended, protected and prosperous, which probably puts me in the same camp as you.

I’m also a Vietnam era kid. The thing I remember most were the nightly body counts on the CBS Evening News. I knew none of those guys but remember each one.

The meat’s ready. Time for dinner.

Packing

Not necessarily in order of importance:

Clothes (assorted), camera, notebook, pens (several), dry bag, PFD, fly rods (two), fly reels (two), spinning rods (two), spinning reels (two), tackle bags (three), fly boxes (numerous), ice chest, coffee Thermos, Chap Stick, hat, rain suit, maps, knife, sunscreen, snacks, bottled water, knapsack, waders (hip and chest), flashlights (two), insect repellent, rope, kayak, paddles (two).

I love getting ready.

Derby Day

I’m not a huge horse racing fan but I do have a passing interest in the Kentucky Derby. It’s akin to passing a highway accident – while thankful that you’re not directly involved it’s difficult not to look.

While getting ready for the big race (basically checking the TV listings for post time so I don’t miss it) I thought about Harry.

That’s Harry Bryan. No, he’s not a jockey or a trainer. He’s a newspaperman. Harry was the sports editor for The Courier-Journal www.courier-journal.com for nearly three decades. He left last month via a buyout offer. The C-J, by the way, is the Louisville, Ky., and Kentucky statewide daily newspaper. Derby Day (and Derby Week) is a big deal in the C-J sports department and can trigger considerable heartburn for the sports editor.

(Derby coverage has been and will be excellent, by the way, as the department is now in the highly capable hands of interim sports editor Creig Ewing.)

Before I proceed: full disclosure. I cover outdoors for the C-J. Harry hired me. I have  nothing but praise and adoration for him, an opinion that I’m sure is shared by everyone who worked under his keen, expert and professional leadership. He would tolerate, though be it unhappily, an occasional error. Idiot blunders were another matter. Harry gave me the best job I’ve ever had in the newspaper business. Lee Sadler, another sports editor who preferred to have things done right, and on time, the first time, gave me my first newspaper gig. Lee and Harry would have gotten along well. Newspapermen, both.

Today must be something of a weird day for Harry. Derby Day and no deadlines? No story assignments? No photo glitches? No computer foul ups? No pressure to be on time and flawless?

Maybe it’s not so weird after all.

Notes on the Longnose Gar

I have an uneasy relationship with gar that stems from a long ago experience that I could probably forget if not for a tiny scar on the back of my left hand. I was a kid motoring along for the ride with my father in a backwater slough off the Mississippi River, my hand foolishly hanging over the gunwale, when something stung me. There was a spot of blood, which I assumed was from a snakebite and triggered near hysteria. I howled loudly enough for my dad to throttle the outboard and tend to me. He said the wound was from a gar bite.

The fish didn’t bite me, of course. I later learned that gar spend a good deal of their time motionless near the surface. The sound and/or approach of the boat almost certainly caused the fish to flounce and its teeth collided with my hand.

Still, I remain cautious around gar, which I’m sure have some distant relation to dinosaurs in bloodline and temperament.

Last week, while fishing Elkhorn Creek, I had another encounter with one of these ancient fish. No blood was spilled this time but I was a bit startled to glance down and see a 3-foot long fish armed with a mouth filled with sharp teeth brush my leg; as oblivious to me as it would have been a post.

The Elkhorn Creek I’m talking about flows cool and clear through north-central Kentucky, and is one of the state’s best smallmouth bass streams. I was wading above a riffle fishing a waist deep pool that curled against a cut bank before funneling into a long, shallow run. It was late afternoon with no other fishermen in sight. The hole had already given up three bass when the gar swam into view, passed lazily within reach, then glided toward the shadows along the bank. 

In his classic Fishing Encyclopedia, A. J. McClane says that the long nose gar should be “utilized as a sport fish to a much greater extent.” McClane could have undoubtedly caught the fish and turned it into a gourmet meal. I am not so skilled but did cast a fly in its direction. Not because of McClane’s advice but because I can’t resist casting to fish I can see. I had little hope of hooking and no hope of landing this beast (its teeth would have sliced the tippet like a razor) but a take would have been satisfying.

My offering was ignored. Just as well. My first aid kit was in my other tackle  pack.

Fort Morgan

Fort Morgan is at the end of the highway 180, about 20 miles west of Gulf Shores, Ala. It’s a pleasant drive, windy and slightly salty; the spit of land being flanked by the Gulf of Mexico and Mobile Bay and skirted with palms and sand.

Fort Morgan is a Civil War relic but even by the time the one and only major Civil War battle was waged here (August 1864) it was out of date. The Battle for Mobile Bay resulted in the surrender of the fort to Union forces following a naval battle that spotlighted the weakness of fixed fortifications. It was also the fight during which Union Admiral D. G. Farragut was credited with directing his ships through mined waters with the order, “Damn the torpedos! Full speed ahead!” What the admiral may or may not have said is unclear. But the risky manuever worked, the battle was eventually won and Farragut achieved hero status.

I’m not a really Civil War buff but always enjoy visiting Fort Morgan, maybe because of its end-of-the-road location. And there’s more to this spot than a slice of military history, important though that may be. Several people were fishing from the pier and rock pilings. Other folks were milling about, enjoying the breeze or waiting to take the ferry to Dauphin Island.

The fort tour is self-guided. On the main rampart of the old brick structure are the remains of Battery Duportail, which was operational from 1899 to 1923, when it was deactivated after having never, I assume, fired a shot in defense of the country. Maybe that’s because potential invaders knew what awaited them. The battery was armed with a pair of 12-inch rifled guns, each capable of firing a 1,046-pound shell 8 1/2 miles. This was a century ago.

Admiral Farragut was fortunate these tools weren’t available in 1864, otherwise he could easily have been regulated to a historical footnote at the bottom of the bay instead of a naval hero and the namesake of high schools and starships.

Road Trip

My daughter and I were traveling to Louisville, Ky., a pleasant but uneventful trip for the first couple of hours. We were traveling along the expressway, cruise control on 70, radio tuned to something agreeable when Rebecca says, “What was that noise?”

“What noise?”

“Didn’t you hear that! It sounded like a big rock hit the bottom on the truck.”

(The vehicle in question was my ’07 F150.)

“I didn’t hear anything.”

“Don’t you here THAT!”

The rapid fire tapping noise was coming from the manual transmission case. Bad news, to be sure. I have the feeling this is suddenly become a very expensive road trip.

“Yea, I hear that.”

The day melts into tow trucks and rental cars, missed appointments and cancelled meetings. We arrive home just before dark. I realize this was my daughter’s first roadside breakdown.

“How’d you know what to do?” she asks. “I’d have just called you.”

I consider several responses and settle on the unvarnished truth. “I’ve had lots of experience. It used to happen to me all the time.”

A couple days later Tim, the mechanic, is explaining that a sliver broke off the 4th speed gear then caused considerable havoc in the gear box. “It might have been a defective part,” he says, while I’m fuming about being a handful of miles out of the extended warranty. “But they’re not made like they used to be. None of them are. I see a lot more automatics that manuals.”

This may have been designed to make me feel better. It didn’t work.

I thank him for agreeing to work on it.

“Glad to do it,” he said. “You know, the clutch looks like it still a few miles on it but if you’re going to keep the truck a while this would be a good time to change it while I have it apart.”

I’m inclined to tell him to forget it but know that he is giving good, reasonable advise so I agree.

By the way . . . learned tonight that iPhones are great until you drop one.

Fishing Fun

If you’re not having this much fun while you are fishing . . . then you’re not having enough fun.

From left, Hunter, 8, dad Lawrence Taylor, Michael, 5, and one of the splendid guides from Gaston’s White River Resort www.gastons.com near Lakeview, Ark.

Trout Fishing 101

Steve Lopez has been working as a trout fishing guide at Gaston’s Resort www.gastons.com for about six years. He’s also worked construction.

“I like guiding better,” he says.

Who can blame him. He on the water everyday in one of the prettiest spots in the country on a river loaded with trout.

His customers always catch fish – at least those who fish the way Lopez want them to, do.

Lopez (that’s him in the photo) is a float and bait man. The technique is akin to a base on balls in baseball. It’s not terribly exciting but it is highly effective.

Lopez uses what he calls a “river rig.” Lightweight spinning rig or closed face reel, filled with six pound test monofilament (four pound monofilament leader from sinker to hook). Small bell sinker No. 6 hook. Pink grub. White PowerBait. Rig as a drop sinker trailed with 3-4 foot leader. Thread the grub onto the hook shank and tip with PowerBait. Simple.

“The PowerBait floats,” Lopez explained.

Cast and dead drift with the current. The fish practically hook themselves.

Exciting? Not particularly. Productive? Very.

Tomorrow, if the 30 mph wind quiets somewhat, we’ll switch to a 9-foot, 5-weight. I’ll let you know.

Gaston’s on the White

Packing for a few days of trout fishing out of Gaston’s Resort www.gastons.com on Arkansas’ White River, where I’ll be joining some old friends, making some new ones and, hopefully, landing a few browns like the one pictured below that agreed to have its photo taken with my friend Bill Moore a couple of years ago.

Scheduled to arrive Monday (and maybe some late afternoon fishing), depart Thursday. The weatherman is promising mild temperatures and only a slight chance of rain. No matter. I’ve learned from experience: Always pack rain gear.

Rain or shine, the White is one of the best tailwater trout rivers in the country, and the folks at Gaston’s welcome you like family.

If you’re unfamiliar with the White and its phenomenal trout fishing; plan a visit. You won’t be sorry. If you need a place to HQ this fishing junket, plan on Gaston’s. You won’t be sorry about that, either. They know the river and their guides are some of the best I’ve worked with. Beyond that, though, it’s simply a friendly, decent place. Families welcome. Fishermen, too.

Orvis Good for 25

The Orvis company www.orvis.com offers a deal that almost seems too good to be true. It’s their 25-year rod guarantee. If you break your Orvis fly rod they’ll repair or replace it free for 25 years. No questions asked.

The deal is good regardless of how the rod is damaged. If you snap your rod while fighting a big fish (a fantasy for most of us), slam it in a car door, step on it, etc., just send it in. If you break it they’ll fix or replace it. That’s the deal.

I was skeptical. Then a few weeks ago I snapped the tip from a 5 weight Trident. I called the folks at Orvis and was instructed to send the rod to Vermont.

I never saw my Trident again. But last week I did receive a new 8-foot, 5-weight T3 (case included). I assumed the Trident is no longer available.

I’m a guy who believes service keeps customers coming back. Maybe that’s why Orvis can trace its history to the roots of American fly fishing.