Swimmin' With the Sharks

Whaddupppp,
I'm not entirely sure if you know what Ohio weather is like, but if you've been there for more than a week, you'll know that its about as predictable as Lindsay Lohan's next felony. After some muggy nights and some summer showers, the lovely roller coaster of Ohio weather is a lot to handle sometimes. Therefore, I've taken my talents to Hilton Head. Alongside my girlfriends Dad and her brother, we've been hittin Carolina surf to see what we can snag. The fly rod didn't fit into the suitcase, and as sick as it would be to strip some Clausers on a 10 wt rod hitting Red Drum and just about anything else, we went old school. Headed to the lovely Wal-Mart on the island and picked up a Shakespeare Tiger Spinning rod, with 20 lb test, attached to a swivel with a pyramid weight, 16 inches of steel leader, and a good size hook. We've thrown both squid and cut mullet on the hooks and we've been having some luck. With your typical retired 70 year old couple occasionally stopping and observing three legendary goons chucking fish heads as far as we could throw them, we had to put on a show. And that we did.

Now, I know its not Jaws, but that's pretty badass. A 24 inch, 5 lb shark on light test is the same as Michael Vick's idea of a perfect way to spend an afternoon, a dogfight.

Much different from my usual Fly-Fishing Experience, this was fun nonetheless. Out at the crack of dawn with a couple dudes just hangin out and fishing. That's a vacation. Gonna hit the water nice and early tomorrow to see if we can hit a Bluefish or something other than a prehistoric beast of a shark that kept the other kids on the beach scared shitless from entering the water. Next time we won't flaunt our catch so that all the lovely vacationers can go Swimmin' With the Sharks.
Boom

PS- If the Spurs win tonight, I'll let a shark bite my finger. Stay tuned.

-Till Next Cast,
CL

Get Fish, or Die Flyin'

Hit up the Mad River yesterday. An hour drive there and an hour back, all for about a half hour of fishing. If that's not worth it then I'm not exactly sure what is. Skies were clear in lovely Upper Arlington, and the radar seemed hopeful, with a 30% chance of showers not slowing me or my buddy down from going on another adventure to the crystal clear spring stream known as Mad River. 

As we headed toward Urbana, the weather continued to be on our side, and it appeared as though no rain had strolled through the Mechanicsburg area as we flew down back roads lined with corn on both sides. As we got closer to the 36 Bridge Exit, some darker storm clouds were appearing faster than pigeons spotting a hippie sporting a loaf of sourdough. We got out of the truck and after tying up a Daddy Long Leg's dry fly on my 4 piece Redington 5 Weight fly rod, I headed into the deep abyss, into a waterway known to have 12-16" Rainbows, Browns, and Brookies. Deep abyss my ass, if you haven't been to Mad River it's a very difficult stream, that is never more than waist deep, and is a beautifully scenic river as trees create a canopy over top of you. As much as I love the thick forestry for blocking the wind from inhibiting my roll casts and dry fly fishing, it also can create some real misfortunes as snags occur on the regular. My buddy started about 50 yards downstream from me and was hitting a dry dropper, more easily explained as a large dry fly with 12-16 inches of tippet trailing behind it with a small nymph sinking below. A very effective strategy as two different flies can attract the fish, and when executed properly, can produce some big numbers. 

As we waded upstream and hit some holes we were familiar with we struggled to get a hit. Like I had mentioned, Mad River is a difficult stream, and for a young fisher who hadn't gone more than a handful of times, it has given me some trouble. Still learning the stream, I had caught less than ten fish before this trip, but as my LM bass fishing became more productive in lakes and ponds, my confidence seemed to grow, and as I waded the crystal clear stream, with rounded rocks beneath my feet, this trip felt good. Then, all hell broke loose. Some fish were rising when we arrived around 530 PM, and although I tried to swing a dry in front of them, I had about as many hits as Nickelback has sellout crowds. I had zero hits in case you were wondering. And if you are reading this and are like, "dude's crazy, Nickelback is badass", well then I'm speechless, and actually kind of bummed that my blog attracted readers of your nature. Alright, back to fishing.

Fish were rising every now and then, and then rain started to trickle down. And within minutes, it appeared that literally forty thousand fish were rising all around me. It was either that, or an absolute downpour had sprung upon us. The thick brush did provide some cover but I headed to the bank where the overhanging trees acted like a raincoat, and I managed to stay pretty dry. Well damn, here I was an hour away from home, caught in a downpour in a trout stream, and I have no fish to make the trip worth it yet. So, I dangle out a few more casts and let the small dry drift down the rising river, the current a little too fast to make the fly noticeable or believable for any of the timid trout to strike. I headed back under the sheltered overhang on the bank and checked my phone. The storm wasn't stopping any time soon and thunder cracked in the back. The sky turned dark and it was time to call it a day. Saying I was frustrated is an understatement, pissed seems more appropriate. Two hours of driving for 40 minutes of fishing and a bad attitude. As much as I wanted to stay in the stream and slay the harsh conditions to slam a beautiful brook, the current had picked up and my makeshift waders, which consisted of some clearance boots from Cabela's and a pair of guide series water 'resistant' pants were taking a beating. As the water stirred up and the heavy rain made it tough to see the bottom, we ventured back to the truck. With both disappointment and water filling our boots, the journey back to Columbus was a quiet one. A new trip is being planned as we speak, and hopefully the results turn out better than this last trip. But the more I think about it, the more I seem to love it all. Out in nature, catching up with friends, wading in a beautiful stream with fish, birds, (and some big ass bugs), surrounding me, it was the perfect place to be. Although I hadn't been slaying Brookies and Bow's this time around, it was hands down better than sitting on my ass at home watching ESPN and hearing what cereal Lebron ate for breakfast or how many sheep Tim Tebow counted to before finally falling asleep and having nightmares of Rex Ryan and every single defensive back in the NFL. Life was good at that moment in the Mad. Escaping the suburbs and the summer football workouts was much needed, and Mother Nature sparked a friendly little rivalry that day. She won that battle, and to be one thousand percent honest, when it comes to the Mad she'll probably win the whole damn war. But I do know one thing, and that it's either I'm going to Get Fish, or Die Flyin'. 

-Till Next Cast, 

Cam

A Stretch of the Mad on a beautiful Day last August, much calmer than the disaster I encountered this week. I want revenge more than Lebron's hairline against the Mavericks.

Virgin Blogger

Hello Fishing World,
As tempted as I am to express my personal interests on a site like eHarmony, I felt the need to bring my talents elsewhere, and by talents I'm simply referring to my obsession of rambling on about fishing experiences I've had. Now I don't know if more than ten people will ever stumble upon this blog, but for those that do, you're in for something special. I'm kidding. I'm a biology major who plays football at a D3 college, and with that information right there you all should be expecting some subpar writing skills and grammatical mishaps, but nonetheless you'll hear a whole lot about fishing.
I've been raised to fish. For as long as I can remember my father has brought me to local ponds around Columbus, Ohio in places like Hilliard and Dublin, and I even managed to toss a line in the Scioto River every now and then. However, as I grew older, the simple worm and bobber technique catching nothing but fist sized bluegill with the occasional LM Bass simply wore me out. I kid you not, I took a year off, not touching a rod or reel for 365 days, and spent the weekend mornings sleeping in instead of fishing with the fam. Something had to change.
I was in fourth grade, which was a great year for me. Learned to write cursive and absolutely dominated in gym kickball. I had learned to go off the high dive and managed to get myself some lovely looking braces. Spring came around and during a rough once-a-week lacrosse practice schedule with a grueling half hour game every Saturday, my body desperately needed a vacation. My Dad, a general contractor, managed to score our family a little weekend getaway at the Nemacolin Resort from one of his suppliers. A beautiful resort in the mountains of Pennsylvania, surrounded by crystal clear streams and creeks, it was a fly fisher's paradise. Wait, fly fishing? Now I've heard of sixty year old men belonging to trout clubs and seen pictures of guides in Wyoming, but as a suburban boy who's known nothing but night crawlers and Zebco's, the whole topic was very unfamiliar. As a treat, we were capable of scheduling a half day fly fishing guide in the Laurel Highlands. As I suited up my waders and scurried through the crystal clear stream, I was at peace. Not that a fourth grader has a whole let to stress about, but this just felt right. With an Orvis 6 wt, 9' pole in my hand, although odd at first, I was ready to experience a whole new type of fishing. As the guide instructed my brother and I on how to roll cast, I simply fell in love. With such an elegant casting motion, with both finesse and patience, fly fishing was the way to go. I was hooked, no pun intended, and from there a new journey began. This is Life On the Fly.