Kype volume 8, Issue 2 2017 by Kype Magazine

What is a Kype? A kype is a hook that forms on the lower jaw of a male trout, salmon or steelhead, during spawning periods. This is their badge of power and dominance, that is unique to only these species—a sign of a warrior. From this mark of strength comes the title of our magazine, KYPE.

Kype Magazine VOLUME 8 ISSUE 2, 2017

Kype Magazine Boise, Idaho aileen@mkflies.com

www.KypeMagazine.com Kype Staff Publisher: Aileen Lane Cover Design: George Douglas Editor: Peggy Bodde Columnist: Marty Heil Columnist: Graham M Moran

Publisher’s Cast: Gratitude (A.Lane).....................................................4 The Water Holds No Scars (A.Lane) Book Review..........................6 Southern Scribbles: The Buzzard (M.Heil)............................................10 C.H.U.B.S. Club (C.Cantella)................................................................12 Dusk Till Dawn & Beyond (K.Berdine)....................................................16 Tying Hoppers: Go Supernatural (K.Held).............................................18 Transitions (C.Shane)..........................................................................28 Saltwater Flies: Keep It Simple (M.Rice)..............................................30 Grandpa’s Potbelly Stove (L.Booth)......................................................34 Tippet the Fly Fishing Dog: Adventures Fishing the Eclipse (K.Held).......38 39 Pounds of Teeth in a Donut: Part III (L.Booth)..................................42 Tie1onFishing: Photo Contributions (D.Pierson)......................................58

“Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after” ~Henry David Thoreau Photo by Ken Held

Publisher’s Cast

Gratitude! by Aileen Lane

Photo by Grant Taylor

Bio: Publisher of Kype Magazine Fly Tyer & Owner of MKFlies Pro Staff Tyer for Deer Creek UK Type of Fishing: Fly Fishing Location: Boise, Idaho Sedona, Arizona Websites: KypeMagazine.com MKFlies.com

Contact Info: aileen@mkflies.com

es, the time has come for me to make my final cast for Kype Magazine. It has been such a privilege and joy to serve as Publisher these past four years. Kype has made it possible for me to make special connections with people in the fly fishing community. I could not have done this without the generous writers and photographers who share their passions with me. I want to give a big shout out and thanks to Team Kype, they are the backbones of this publication. I am forever grateful to them for sharing their dedication, knowledge and talent to make Kype what is has become today: George Douglas, my go-to-person and cover design guru; Peggy Bodde, my amazing editor; Marty Heil, our “Southern Scribbles” columnist who shares my passion for dry fly fishing and poetry; and Graham Morah, our “Tenkara Wanderings” columnist who shares with us the beauty of Tenkara. I would also like to give thanks to Deer Creek UK and UniProducts for their support and dedication. For the final cover, I asked my friend, Ken Held to use the photo he took during one of our fishing adventures. This photo encompasses the true meaning of fly fishing for me. I am sure we landed plenty of fish that day, but what I clearly remember about that day is the laughter and joy we all shared together. In fact, most of my favorite photos from fishing are of my friends. I am blessed.

Book Review The Water Holds No Scars Fly Fishing Stories of Rivers & Rejuvenation by Aileen Laneby

What is it about fly fishing that people are so passionate about? It is not merely a sport. It offers much more than fish at the other end of a line. I know that for myself, fly fishing became a way for me to find comfort and support when I was very far from home. It helped fill that void, and I have met so many wonderful people who are now considered family. The Water Holds No Scars is a beautiful collection of stories written by veterans and non-veterans who have discovered the healing powers of fly fishing. There is something very special about being out in nature and taking in all the beauty this natural world has to offer. For a few moments, you begin to forget all your pain and worries and start to enjoy being in the light. And then, the healing process begins. On the river, fly fishing becomes much more than just wetting a line and catching fish. I thoroughly enjoyed reading all the short stories of The Water Holds No Scars: each story is very heartwarming and uplifting. Editor, Dean K. Miller has assembled such wonderful stories to share. Be sure to pick up two copies: one for yourself, and another to share. Sales from this book will benefit the Platte Rivers Chapter of Project Healing Waters Fly Fishing, an organization dedicated to supporting disabled military service personnel and veterans. For more information, please visit: www.thewaterholdsnoscars.com

KYPE

Column

The Buzzard by Marty Heil

Kype Columnist I’ve been tying and fishing since the late 70’s. Blessed to travel and fish all over but my heart lies with the small wild fish of the southern Appalachians. I fish waters big and small every chance I get from coast to coast and across oceans, but my soul sings best in those small wild waters I grew up on. I fish mostly for Salmonids but hit warm water now and then as well. Specks (Brookies) are my true love. I’m a bamboo and dry fly guy mostly but my purist rants are made with my tongue firmly in cheek. I make my home near Nashville, Tennessee (no, I don’t sing or play guitar.) Marty.heil@yahoo.com

Southern Scribbles A kinda sorta epic (ish) Poem by Marty Once upon a fishless day deep and dreary, As I pondered weak and weary Just what the hell the fish were rising to? While I nodded nearly napping In my spot the fishtails slapping Suddenly there came a tapping As of someone gently rapping Gently tapping On the rock Where I sat drinking On the rock Where I sat thinking Just what the hell the fish were rising to? Tis an angling pal a coming This unseen hatch to deplore Only this and nothing more I turned my head toward this tapping Looking for its source this rapping A small child’s voice came softly singing His Zebco gently swinging Mr., can I fish here? Quoth the Buzzard nothing more The fish they were still a rising And still they were my fly despising Sure, I said changing flies again pondering Just what the hell the fish were rising to? Sure, I said again Quoth the Buzzard nothing more I saw his red white bobber splashing Gently I smiled upon the happy youth Changing flies again I musing over Just what the hell the fish were rising to?

Suddenly there came a thrashing Suddenly there came a splashing The sweet child catching Shimmering silver rainbow leaping His laughter music a joy to hear Gently I smiled upon happy youth The fish they were still a rising And still they were my fly despising I changed flies again pondering Just what the hell the fish were rising to? Casting, casting, casting Changing, changing, changing Again, there came a thrashing Again, there came a splashing That lilting laughter singing Little bastard catching another one Quoth the Buzzard nothing more I dug deep my boxes For treasured flies forgotten Any bit of curios forgotten lore To end the pain To break the chain Of woe and misery This fishless day A tiny voice came singing In my ears gently ringing Wanna try a worm mister? You’ll catch more. Thank you NO My terse reply Quoth the Buzzard nothing more The fish they were still a rising And still they were my fly despising Flies again changing pondering Just what the hell the fish were rising to? Little monster’s bobber sinking Again, the dreaded thrashing Again, that damned splashing Vile little villain catching ANOTHER ONE Quoth the Buzzard nothing more Again, that grating voice came chiming Wanna try a worm mister? I promise you’ll catch more Thank you NO My terse reply Quoth the Buzzard nothing more The fish they were still a rising And still they were my fly despising Just what the HELL ARE THEY RISING TO?

Again, that dreaded splashing Again, that damned thrashing I thought I must be dreaming As I heard his Zebco screaming Oh Mr., It’s a monster! That foul little brute he cried My soul with rage a burning A leviathan brown the pool a churning Again, that demonic voice it asked Wanna try a worm mister? I promise you’ll catch more. Thank you NO My terse reply Quoth the Buzzard nothing more Oh, Mr. will you net him? And take a picture so I won’t forget him? Sure, kid happy to Quoth the Buzzard nothing more Tight Lines And Sincere apologies to Mr. Poe. -M

C.H.U.B.S. Club by Charles N Cantella

“Small fish in the hands of people with small hands, look relatively large” – http://www.unaccomplishedangler.com To use the language of the day, I generally don’t play well with others. Growing up, my parents called me “contrarian”. I disagreed. My teachers said I was “oppositionally defiant”. But they were wrong too.

Charles N. Cantella is a writer from P i t t s b u r g , Pennsylvania, where he lives with his wife Megan and their children Colin and Anna. His work has appeared in Hatches & Rises, the award-winning newsletter of the Penn’s Woods West Chapter of Trout Unlimited. He may be reached at c.n.cantella@hot mail.com

What I really am is a peace freak/change the world/ hippie throwback from back in the decade that was the 60’s, yeah baby, the 60’s. It was a time when such literary luminaries as Kurt Vonnegut, Ray Bradbury, and John Steinbeck among others were pushing the boundaries of literature. It was a time when writer Richard Brautigan was doing such edgy things as titling a book Trout Fishing in America, while it only minimally dealt with trout fishing. He then goes on to dedicate an entire chapter to his desire “to write a book that ends with the word Mayonnaise”. Who does that? Such rebellious actions somehow stained, (I prefer the term “influenced”), my thinking and outlook, transforming me into what I am today: an average, not overly motivated, occasionally witty, rebel without a cause. Of course Brautigan and the other movers and shakers of the 60’s had something going for them that I don’t: a cause, something to stand for, something to rally around. They rallied against the system. They pushed the envelope. They went where society norms said they couldn’t go. Me? I have trouble coloring inside the lines. These folks re-wrote the lines. Compared to them, what do I have? Nothin’. So what I really need is a cause. You can get away with being a rebel without a cause in your teens and 20’s, they call it “going through a stage”. But when you get to be my age and you act that way and you don’t have a cause, what they call you is much less flattering. Phrases such as “lazy jerk”, “unmotivated slob”, and “jackass” start getting bantered about.

So how does one go about finding a cause? Causes aren’t just falling out of the trees, you know. The good ones aren’t anyway. That was the question running through my mind the other day while I was out on the river with C.S. out fishing me by about a 3 to 1 ratio, which is par for the course. All that fishless downtime gave me plenty of time to think. The beauty of being a bad fly fisherman is that you have a lot of time to think. Consciously you are focused on your cast, the drift, and the mend while your subconscious works out the really important things in life like, will the beer still be cold when we get back to the truck, and what type of cause can an aging, cranky, wanna-be hipster like me champion without over exerting his middle aged, out of shape body? Somewhere between my first and fiftieth cast I came upon the realization that fly-fishing is probably the ultimate counterculture sport: The idea is to catch fish…with many of us releasing the fish we catch anyway; and while we enjoy catching the fish… we give almost every advantage to the fish, intentionally fishing the smallest of flies with pinched barbs on the thinnest of line. So deep into my mind warp was I that I almost missed the twitch of the leader signaling a strike. Almost. I set the hook solidly into 6 inches of chub fury! Upon landing and releasing the silver dart, I had an epiphany. I had my cause, I had found my purpose! I would champion the cause of elevating the lowly chub from “rough fish” status to “highly esteemed game fish” status. Well maybe not “highly esteemed game fish”, I’d settle for just plain “game fish” status. Eureka! I had my Zen moment! I had found my cause! But my elation was short lived as I wondered if there was anyone other than me who actually had feelings towards chubs other than disgust. You can’t really have a cause with just a handful of followers. Groups like that are called cults. So I made it my mission, nay, my obsession to be as observant as possible to glean any hints from other anglers who may well have a soft spot for chubs and other small fish. Lo and behold, while on vacation in Virginia, I came across a “Chub Lane” and it got me to thinking, of all of the fish in the world that they could have chosen to name this lane, they chose “Chub Lane”. Was it a fluke, or was there more to it? Are there other people other who are feeling chub love? After all, there is a Steelhead Lane in Burlington, Washington and there’s a Trout Lane in Ocean City, Maryland. There are Bass Lanes in Senecaville, OH; Winchester, VA; and in Summerseat, United Kingdom as well! So why wouldn’t the developer have chosen to name his lane after one of the more “glamorous”

or “popular” fish? I believe it was chosen intentionally, I believe the developer was a chubber [author’s note: follow up research has revealed that the term “chubber” may or may not be politically correct and/or may be offensive to an overly-sensitive population, so for future references in this story I will use the terms “small fish specialists” or “SFS”]. “What is a small fish specialist?” you ask. An SFS is a term designated for those anglers who actively and intentionally fish for chubs and other diminutive fish. While you may not fully believe it, I’ve found signs of a small, but growing underground contingent of SFS out there hiding in the shadows of the trout and bass fishermen. Perhaps they’re afraid of the mockery they may be subjected to if anyone ever found out about their “little” secret. So they go on using many of the same rods, reels, and flies as the “real” fishermen. They fish the same rivers and lakes too. But they always have to temper their enthusiasm when they land that chub, lest their jubilation expose them for what they really are…small fish specialists! Up until now they have had to enjoy their sport clandestinely, lurking in the shadows, paranoid and unsure with whom they can share their secret …until now. That’s why I’m proud to announce my idea; my cause, my snub at the pomp and pageantry of trout and bass, the creation of the C.H.U.B.S. Club. Here is my vision, my manifesto, my gift to the world: C.H.U.B.S. Club! C.H.U.B.S. Club (Chub Hunting Union of Brothers & Sisters) Club would be an organization where chub aficionados can get together and discuss their favorite sport, chub fishing, without fear of retribution or backlash. I use the term chub loosely to include any number of smaller fish, not just chubs. Just as colleges and collegiate athletics are ranked according to the size of the institution to avoid potential mismatches, and it would be unfair to match a sprawling, prestigious Division I school against a smaller, more humble Division II or Division III school, so too we rank the fish. And for too long the Division I fish of the freshwater world (the trout and the bass primarily) have had more than their fair share of the glory, but no more. I yearn for a world where a man or woman is not judged by the length, girth, or species of the fish they catch, but by the enjoyment and etiquette they embody while in pursuit of said fish, and with the launching of C.H.U.B.S. Club, a whole new swath of the angling population will now have a voice. In a safe, non-judgmental atmosphere, C.H.U.B.S. club gatherings would provide these small fish specialists a place to relax. Perhaps they would choose to sip an Angry Minnow beer and enjoy its smooth flavor straight from Hayward, Wisconsin (ironically the home of the National Freshwater Fishing Hall of Fame where people gush over big fish). Maybe those who enjoy darker beers will like to sample the Old Chub Scotch Ale from Oskar Blues Brewery, brewed in North Carolina, but headquartered and originated in Colorado, traditionally a trout stronghold. Those whose tastes run toward wine will find that a glass of fine Minnow Creek wine from the exotic land of Australia will quench their thirst. Members may also enjoy a nice tin of sardines, Swedish Fish, Goldfish crackers or pizza topped with anchovies to sate hungry appetites while mulling and debating the trials and tribulations of small fish fishing deep into the evening. 14

Perhaps we’ll get T-shirts and hats made, proudly proclaiming our love of the chub. Maybe local, then state chapters will spring up [Chubs Unlimited, perhaps?], bringing tens, then hundreds, and maybe thousands into the fold. Dare I think there could ever be a C.H.U.B.S. Club national organization? Rod and reel manufacturers, aching for new rods and reels to develop could entice us with new gear specialized for the sole purpose of pursuing dainty fish. And then the magazines, and TV shows would start up, along with the advertising revenue that could be generated by plastering glossy grip and grin photos of happy anglers, gently releasing their chubs back to the water to fight another day. The liberation these specialists may feel after being relieved of living the lie of preferring bass and trout over chubs will undoubtedly be overwhelming. C.H.U.B.S. Club hopes to soothe frayed nerves and foster fellowship and goodwill among all anglers, not just the small fish specialists. Chub fishing isn’t for everyone, we understand that, but all are welcome here. Because all large fish were once small fish, and because we believe that ultimately life (and more importantly, fishing) is all about the experience and the perception. If one plans on releasing the fish anyway, does it matter if the fish was seventeen inches or seven? No. The important thing is that you went fishing. It would take a lot of hard work and effort to make this work. It would take a whole lot of hard work and effort. Probably more hard work and effort than I could muster. Yeah, now that I think about it, it would take a huge amount of hard work and effort. But I’m up for it. Kinda. Maybe I’ll start tomorrow, or the next day. I’ve already accepted and admitted and embraced that I’m not an overly motivated person. So I guess I’ll get to it, when I get to it. For now, I pretty much have the chubs all to myself. And that’s ok with me, because at least I have my cause, and I’m pretty sure that’s all I can handle right now. KYPE

Dusk Till Dawn and Beyond by Kenny Berdine

I live in Washington, Pa and have been a fly fisherman since I have been 12yrs old and tying flies for almost as many years. I have always been a freshwater type of person, mostly for trout, but recently started chasing everything that swims! Catch me on Facebook, Instagram or twitter I am the owner of Fly Tiers Anonymous www.flyfishing.flytiersanonymous.com www.flytiersanonymous.com

ou all have read about or have gone night fishing. Well, I too have gone with friends to a local carp lake to try and win the jackpot, but I am referring to chasing those brown trout on a stream. No lights. Just the sound of the mouse scurrying across the water with those short but fast strips and the sound of the water breaking as Mr. Brown crushes your mouse. A good buddy, Rob Compher, and myself planned a trip out to a well-known stream in Central, Pennsylvania for a weekend. Rob had never caught a trout on a fly rod. We arrived Saturday early enough to get some fishing in and find a spot on the stream for the night. The evening fishing was slow due to low and clear conditions. I managed to pick up a single small rainbow trout. While anxiously awaiting nightfall, we prepped our fly rods and tied the mouse patterns on. As we sat there, night is crept in on us and the sound of the water was all we had. As we listened to the stream flow. I asked Rob if he could hear what I was hearing. He listened and heard the same sounds: the sounds of rising fish! With that sound echoing in the background, I told him it was going to be a great night. We began our approach to the water, slowly working our way into position to cast. There was total darkness, with not even the moonlight reflecting off the water. We began to cast. On the second cast, the water broke with the crashing sound of a brown trout crushing my mouse. The hit was extremely hard, and there was no need to set a hook. Mr. Brown was hooked and a fight ensued between us.

We both believe in catch and release, so Mr. Brown was released unharmed after a quick few pictures. For the next hour, fishing was great for me. I took a break to work with Rob. We made a slight change in the way he was stripping his line. After this short training session, Rob worked his way into position. He casts! I hear the plop of his mouse, then its action as it sped across the water. Nothing! Again, he casts! Plop, strip, strip, stripâ&#x20AC;Ś. Boom!!! Rob hooked first trout, and it was a brown at night! Needless to say, we were both overwhelmed with joy. We caught a few more fish as the night went on and into the late hours of the morning. The memories from that night live on, and more memories are to be made! Take a friend and go make some memories of your own. KYPE

Tying Hoppers Go Super Natural by Ken Held

I started my journey of fly fishing and tying some 40 plus years ago, I have tried to be as innovative with my tying as I can with new materials making my flies durable and as realistic as I can. I do tying demonstrations to pass my knowledge on to others that have the same passion for fly tying that I do, and then spend many hours on the river testing them. In September 2014 some of my flies where published in Rick Takahashiâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s newest book Modern Terrestrials and my journey continues.

Grasshoppers are found throughout the world except in the North and South Pole. They live in many different types of terrain and climate. In warmer climates, they may live for several years and grow up to four or five inches long in some regions of the world. Most do not die of natural causes but instead die from predation, disease, or climate. Worldwide, there are 10,000 plus known species of grasshoppers: alkali grasshopper (Trimerotropis salina), differential grasshopper (Melanoplus differentialis), red-legged grasshopper (Melanoplus femurrubrum), to name a few. No matter what you call them, the grasshopper is a big dinner for a hungry trout and a cornucopia for trout when the conditions are perfect. To some fly fishers, hopper time is the time of the year that canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t get here fast enough. A time when that imperfect cast just doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t

matter. Your fly hits the water with such a splash that most self-respecting trout would be off like a shot to deeper waters or tucked tight back under the bank, but most of the time when this big tasty meal hits the water, fish hit it like a lineman on a pro football team. We have all caught those fish that have been gorging on hoppers so heavily that you can see them bulging in their sides, and you wonder how they could even eat another one, even as the fish takes your fly and greedily inhales it. During the first part of the season as we flock to the river, almost any hopper imitation will work: Joe’s hoppers, Dave’s hoppers, and stimulators. Almost any fly that looks like a hopper will be ripped off the surface faster than a dragster in the quarter mile. In the weeks after the first hopper sightings on the river, we must start using patterns that look more and more like the real bug, but even then—we start to see those fish that have been stung by a hook one too many times reject what we have to offer them at the end of our lines. You make the perfect approach and cast with your offering to that monster trout only to have the fish look at your fly, turn away, and reject it, or worse yet—not even move at all from its lie. On a fishing trip to one of my favorite rivers, not too long ago, the hoppers were in full swing and were all over the banks. I met a friend and his lady at one of my favorite spots on the river. I was having an awesome day already, bringing over two-dozen fat, healthy browns to the net, most in the 21 to 22-inch range. Once my friends got their gear on and joined me, we caught fish after fish. Like all good things though, it started to slow as the hatch started to ebb and almost came to a standstill. My friend is a guide and he had the answer to the slow fishing (so he thought). He tied on a Big Secret Hopper. I told him he was wasting his time as the fish had probably seen that pattern a hundred times already this year. The local fly shops were out of them. He had spotted a huge fish lying just off the grassy bank in the shade of the trees that lined the river. With expert precision and skill, he placed the fly eighteen inches in front of this monster, giving the fly a couple of light twitches after it hit the water. Maybe I was wrong about the Big Secret Hopper, and this monster was about to be fooled by the fly that was being offered. I watched it move toward the fly. I continued to watch as the fish moved ever closer to the fly, seeing the anticipation in my friend as he readied to set the hook with the fish now a mere inch from the fly, but no such luck. The fish just looked at it and went back to where it came from. Two more times the fly was expertly presented to this fish, only to be rejected. I told my friend, “Strike three! You’re out!” My turn. It was time for the KLH Super Natural

Hopper, I already had a second rod on the bank set up with the fly ready to go. As I walked to the bank to retrieve the rod, I was wondering how smart of an opponent I was about to be up against. This fish had just taken one of us to school, and I was hoping this fish didn’t have a PhD! I walked over to where I could present the fly to this sly monster of a fish without spooking it, as the water was gin clear. I skillfully placed the fly two feet above the spot the fish was lying in and gave it three quick twitches and waited. The wait was short: maybe two seconds, if that. This wise old fish had just been fooled, his nose braking the surface as the fly disappeared into its cavernous mouth. Then he turned back down to his lie. I set the hook and then heard that sound we all love: a screaming reel, and the rest is history. My friend yelled out his displeasure at me hooking the fish: a fish that just brushed him off three times. He then asked me when I was going to turn him on to one of my flies. I made him squirm for a bit but gave him one in the end. Two weeks later, it was a different story in the same spot with my fiancée. I got schooled by a huge fish. My fiancée had been trying to catch this fish for about fifteen minutes. She kept telling me that it was a huge fish, but with this being only her second fly-fishing trip, I was thinking huge meant a 16-18-inch fish. I told her to keep trying. She was starting to get frustrated, and she wanted me to catch it. I knew I had the ticket for this ride. I grabbed my rod that was set up with the Super Natural Hopper and slowly made my way out to her. The water was still gin clear, and I didn’t want to spook the fish off. I reached the point where she was standing and asked her where this huge fish was. She pointed to a flat rock in the river and to my surprise it was indeed a huge fish: a 24-inch class fish lying beside the rock she had pointed too! She called it Shamu and rightfully so. The problem was this fish was only fifteen feet away, so I pitched the fly low to keep my rod tip down. The fly hit the water pretty hard, and I started twitching the fly. Shamu grabbed the fly before turning and heading back down to its rock, and I’m thinking, “I got you now!” I set the hook, only to have the fly come back at me. Not missing a beat, I flipped the fly right back out. Another take by the fish with my fiancée getting as excited as a little girl, screaming, “Catch it! Catch it!” I set the hook again with the same result. Once again, I put the fly back in front of Shamu. Another take. This time the fish goes straight down, and I’m already setting my hook when I see that the fish has been grabbing the fly by the back leg. No fourth try on this fish. The school bell had rung, and school was out for the day, but lessons had been learned. When I first started tying foam hoppers, I would cut the foam by hand. This was very time-consuming and tedious. I later discovered Tomsu's Supreme Hopper 20

cutters from River Road Creations. This allowed me to make hoppers faster, and each was as uniform as the next. These worked for a while during the first part of hopper season but later in the season, fish would reject them. The flies still didn’t look real enough, and that is when I started to play with other materials to use for legs, wings and other parts of the hopper. Coloring the flies was the next problem. Hoppers primarily use crypsis, the ability for an organism to blend in with its environment. The Alkali Grasshopper, predominate here in the northwest, has a three- tone mottled camouflage, which was hard to duplicate. I solved this problem by using ethafoam that’s used to pack electronics. You’ve seen it: that white, red or black ridged foam your Blu-ray player came packed in. I use the high-density foam with smaller holes for the mid tone and the low density with larger holes for the dark tones. I rub ethafoam with permanent marker and stamp the foam body, wings, and legs with it. I use the craft foam color as a base color on the fly and then a mid-tone and a dark color on top of that with the marker. You can use this technique on other flies, too. Just use a leaf stamp from the craft store to make the veins in a stonefly wing. Making the wings look real was the next problem I faced. Foam just wasn’t cutting it because it was too thick and not translucent enough, so I tried Swiss Straw. It was thin and seemed like it would work well. It looked good, but when it got wet, it went to mush. Back to square one. I solved this set back by laminating the Swiss Straw to Aleene's Fabric Fusion Permanent Adhesive sheets both top and bottom. You can buy it from Amazon. It’s waterproof and tough. I’m also using plastic air packing. The ones I have are from Sealed Air. I use it now for the wings and pronotum in place of the Swiss Straw. It’s still laminated to the fabric fusion. The stuff is bullet proof. The final issue I had to deal with was getting the mid, front legs, and antenna in place without using thread to attach it to the body of the hopper. It had to be fast, easy, repeatable, and strong. I’m using a beading needle with a loop of fine Kevlar thread to do this. Just run the needle through the side of the hopper body and out the bottom, put the knotted rubber leg through the loop, and pull it through. Adjust the leg length, and add a drop of super glue to the side of the body done. The antenna is done the same way through the top of the head and out the bottom. Glue and cut. You would think with all of this, you’d have a fly that can’t miss! Remember Shamu, the fish that schooled me? Well, I learned something that day: my Super Natural Hopper had a flaw. A fish could grab it and not get anywhere near the hook. So, I started brainstorming and found a solution to the problem. I now tie it on a HMH 3/32 rigid tube and use a size 14 Tiemco 2488 out the back. The hook sits right between the back legs: no more pulling the fly down by the leg! The following is a step by step on tying the KLH Super Natural Hopper. Prep all materials before you start makes tying faster. 21

Materials list Hook: Masu K-3 sz8 or 3/32 HMH tube Body: 2mm foam cut with River Road Creations sz 6-8 cutter Wings: Tan Swiss straw laminated to Aleene’s Fabric Fusion or 3M 300LSE cut with RRC wing cutter sz 6-8 Pronotum: Tan Swiss straw laminated to Aleene’s fabric fusion or 3M 300LSE sz 6-8 Back Legs: TNT hopper legs cream Front and mid legs: Hareline natural cream medium round rubber Antenna: Spirit River tarantu-leggs tan mini Eyes: MFC Hopplze mottle brown 3.5mm Fine beading needles and Kevlar thread for attaching legs. Materials prep: color body, legs, wings and pronotum with ethafoam and marker. After parts are prepped you’re ready to tie.

Step 1 Place a needle in your vise and wrap thread like your tying on a hook.

Step 2 Place a dab of super glue on the tail of the 2 body halves and slide it on the needle when dry. Pull the thread straight up between the bodies and wrap over 3 times then bring up from the bottom and repeat.

Step 3 Your wraps should look like this.

Step 4 Once you have the body complete, remove the body from the needle and place the hook between the 2 halves and super glue them together. You can add some lead wire below the hook to get it to ride lower in the water. Take a new razor blade and cut the back flat.

Step 5 Now tie in the back legs on each side and super glue them to the body. Cut the leg tabs off

Step 6 Run the needle through the side and down so it comes out in the center of the hopper body.

Step 7 Put the knotted legs through the loop you made with the thread and beading needle; pull them straight and adjust. Place super glue where it enters the side of the body.

Step 8 The legs should look like this. Clip the excess from the bottom and add a drop of glue to the bottom where all the legs come out. Trim the legs to length.

Step 9 Tie the wing on and glue the wing down and form the head. You can use E6000 glue for this which you can get at Wal-Mart in the craft section.

It should look like this.

Step 10 Add the pronotum over the wing using E6000 to glue it down and hold it in place by wrapping thread around the body until it dries.

Step 11 Run your needle through the top of the head and use the mini legs for the antenna.

Step 12 Do both sides and trim to length.

Step 13 Add the mouth with an extra fine tip maker. You can see how all the legs come out in this picture.

Step 14 Add the eyes and add a small amount of super glue to the edge to hold them firm. You now have a completed KLH Super Natural hopper. KYPE

Transitions by Christian Shane

Christian Shane, a Life Science Teacher in Pittsburgh, PA, is also an avid fly fisherman, fly tyer, and outdoor writer. He also participates in the Trout in the Classroom project and is currently underway with a Middle Grade novel called Salmon Survivor.

ith Uncle Frank’s pipe cradled in my top pocket, scents of cherry wood tobacco surround me as I move down the wooded path along the stream. I stride slower and more deliberately than usual, as there’s no need to rush. Like a Clydesdale in waders, I would often race down the valley trail awkwardly, just to arrive at Big Rock Hole first. Frank went at his own pace, knowing there would still be fishable water. Since his passing last winter, it’s my first time out on the water this season. In my sling pack, I carry more mementos of our time spent fishing together. Scattered throughout my mishmash of fly boxes are remnants of the rivers we’ve fished and the flies we’ve tied together. In my energetic youth, Frank nurtured in me a love for the outdoors to travel and fish these wonderful American rivers and marvel at these hatches, insects, and trout. This summer, I’m attempting to recreate the trips out west, hoping to relive those moments on the water with my own two kids. I’m sure to recall the story of Frank’s Ford F-150, Big Blue, which we drove from Pennsylvania each summer. On the way to West Yellowstone, I pushed Big Blue’s transmission to the brink while the truck clambered up a gravel hill. When we came to a hard stop, and it was clear that Big Blue wasn’t going any further, Uncle Frank reassured me that she did have 175,000 miles on her already, and it was only a matter of time. “What better place for her to break down than in Montana?” he quipped. As we waited for the tow to arrive, he suggested we fish the small stream along the road. We hastily tied on generic Royal Coachmans, crawled down the steep embankment, and pulled out a few native cuts before the tow showed up. That week, while waiting for mechanics to rebuild the truck’s tranny, we rented and stuffed our gear into a Dodge Neon and still managed to fish the Gallatin and the Madison. Our rule was never to drive more hours than we would fish for the day. It was an amazing week despite Big Blue’s troubles, and even with the set-back, Frank still sought to fish the Montana waters.

I arrive at the Big Rock, a place where we hooked into fish many times. Considered our home PA stream, the Big Rock is where we met many times after work to fish the evening hatches. Today, the evening comes early, and I only have a few hours of sunlight to get on and off the stream. I reach into my pack to pull out a fly box, only to grab his infamous Wheatley. As I crack it open, odors of pipe smoke, moth balls, and rust escape. Scanning the contents, I spot a #22 RS-2. The fly prompts a laugh inside as I reminisce one of the first Western waters we ever fished together: the San Juan River in New Mexico. In preparation for the trip, we stocked our fly boxes with every color of San Juan worm we could get our hands on. We never caught a single trout with them there. One pattern we used with success was the RS2. I used a chocolate while Uncle Frank fished the black one. I never could have believed that we’d spend the next three days catching fish after fish on such a miniscule pattern. I think he agreed. “Just thread on a hook,” he dubbed them. When one of us was picking them off on various sizes of #22s and #24s, the other wasn’t. So, we politely exchanged the variety of fly color palettes throughout the day when the finicky trout deemed it necessary. In the fly box, Uncle Frank had a cicada pattern mixed in with the micro patterns like Grave Digger next to a Volkswagen Bug. We spent many a season in Dutch John, Utah fishing the Green River with cicadas. Sometimes we hit the bugs perfectly, and other times we had to work for them. Since he was a good basser, Frank loved that those brown trout came at the cicadas the way he Jitterbugged for the bass back home. Though usually an introverted person, Frank hooted and hollered when a brown took one ferociously. We both found it amazing that the browns would sometimes inspect the cicada pattern with their snouts before engulfing it. I reach a good looking spot on the stream and pause to listen. I observe downstream for any activity as a soft breeze glides through the trees. Choosing a regular old Pheasant tail, I trail it off of an olive Woolly Bugger. “Nothing fancy,” he used to quip about his regular set-up. I make a few casts, but the evening is just too beautiful to ignore. I’m mesmerized by the fluid movements on the water’s surface as everything finds its way into the water seam. Uncle Frank’s fly had drifted this section over thousands of times before, his cast making that prime drift down the bubble line in hopes of an awaiting take. The spot where the trout hold in the transitional water. Where predators meet the prey. Where life meets death. Where slow meets the fast, and time stands still. KYPE 29

Saltwater Flies: by Mike Rice

Keep It Simple

A Mike Rice came to fly fishing late in life at the age of 33 and has tried to make up for those lost years without a fly rod ever since. In 2000, dissatisfied with the quality and durability of flies he had been buying he started tying commercially. It began with a few guides he knew, then a few local fly shops and eventually an online store on his website. From the beginning the objective has been to turn out simple flies that are proven to catch fish, be durable and hopefully be part of someone’s fishing stories. Rice is a Regal Vise Endorsed Fly Tier, an American Museum of Fly Fishing Ambassador and an Associate Member of the Outdoor Writers Association of America. He has had the opportunity to fish most of the East Coast, the Everglades and the Bahamas but his favorite water is at home on the North and South Rivers in Marshfield, MA. He writes about life on the water in his blog, Backwater Flats. In fly tying and in his own fishing, it has never been about the number of catches or the size of the fish…it is the story of the experiences, the places, the people and the fish themselves that keeps him tying one on.

uthor’s note: I’m a fly tier. I’m not a fly-fishing expert; I’m a fly fisherman. I shy away from the “how-to, where-to, when-to, and you-have–todo-it-this-way” discourse. Every tide is different. What works one day probably won’t the next. What I have learned has come from trial and error and time on the water. Experience is the best educator. Get out there. To steal a catch-phrase from Royal Wulff Products, “Shut Up and Cast.” After the rods, reels, and lines are rigged and the leaders are tied, the next question is which fly to tie on. Walk into a real fly shop and look at the number of flies in the bins. You can feel lost very quickly. Flip through the pages and pages of flies in catalogs or on websites. It’s exhausting. Wander the aisles of the winter fly shows and watch the guest tiers building hundreds of different patterns. Your mind will explode. Asking for advice can be as daunting because there are as many opinions on fly selection as there are patterns. I’m not sure anyone knows how many there are. Many are just modifications and adaptations of flies that have been proven to be effective. Some are tied to catch fish; many are tied to catch the fisherman. When I started tying nearly twenty years ago, it seemed that flies were all grouped together by the species they were intended to target. I had a list of flies memorized for each saltwater species that I could instantly recite when asked. The “Striper so-and so,” the “Tarponwhatever, “and the “Albie got-to-have-it,” as if the fish

were going to eat it because the magazines said they were supposed to. The more time you spend on the water, the more environs you fish in, and the more species you fish for, the more you realize the bait is generally all the same in terms of size and profile. Obviously, there are some differences and situations that call for specific baits like permit (anywhere), tarpon on worms or laid up, Seychelles milkfish or neurotic bonefish. Those are examples where not only are more specific or specialized flies warranted, but time and experience are factors as well. Where to start? Match the hatch. That’s what the trout bums do. It’s a starting point. It’s the same in saltwater. Rather than matching a certain insect or stage of emergence, we need to match the prevalent bait. Though fewer in number than freshwater flies, there are thousands of saltwater patterns to select from. For the average day on the water we can simplify things so that a handful flies cover a wide range of situations. When I give talks to fishing clubs about flies or teach tying classes now, rather than going into great detail about matching specific baitfish or spewing out a list of fly patterns, I cover types of bait profiles to imitate and break them down into different components and groups: SIZE / LENGTH This is pretty simple; small, medium and large. I carry flies in the two to four-inch range for flats and the backwater, four to six-inch range for bays and deeper water off the flats, and six to eight-inch for fishing structure from shore and off the boat. SHAPE The shape or body profile of the fly can range from fully dressed bodies like a bunker or herring, squat bodied like a mummichog, tubular like an offshore sand eel or silverside/bay anchovy, or sparse and thin like a glass minnow or inshore sand eel. COLOR There are many theories on color. In the end it comes down to matching color patterns of the local baits and what you find works in different conditions. The rule of thumb is a dark-colored fly for a dark bottom and a light-colored fly for a light bottom. Variables such as where in the water column you’re targeting fish, water clarity, lighting, and time of season will all factor into which color is best. SPECIAL TEAMS This group consists of fly patterns outside the typical baitfish patterns. Flies that are weighted

to get down in the water column; top-water flies for surface feeds; specialty flies like crab, shrimp, worm or squid patterns; and of course—the flies that we all use but don’t talk about because no one would believe us. One thing that is commonly overlooked but just as important as the fly selection is how the fly is retrieved or “played.” This is where the materials used to build the fly and their “action” come into play. Fly tiers spend a lot of time finding the right material to create the action they want the fly to mimic. Some flies will have a lot of action, and some will not. Knowing how to fish the fly in certain types of water and/or for a certain species will play a big part in whether you catch fish or you don’t. This comes with time on the water and experimenting. I see people all the time throwing a big ten or twelve-dollar fly into moving water and stripping it back with the classic rod-under-the-arm-two- handed-turbo-retrieve get out fished by someone else throwing a four-inch five-dollar fly using a slow, staggered retrieve. Don’t over think it: let the fly do what it’s designed to do. Shortly after I started tying commercially, I had a conversation with Konrad Gesner, a long-time fixture in Boston fly fishing. He was seventy at the time and had spent his entire life fishing Cape Cod and the South Shore. Over a beer I asked him a series of specific questions about flies. He was generous in his responses but finally looked at me and said, “Keep it simple and keep fishing it. All you really need is some white bucktail on a hook…and maybe a few strands of something shiny.” I think of his words every time I sit down at the vise or rig up a rod. The more we fish, the more confident we get with a favorite fly. My friend, Mark Seymour, fishes one of my flies almost every time he’s out for striped bass or bluefish. He and I have even fished false albacore with it. It’s just a simple baitfish pattern originally tied to mimic large offshore sand eels that schools of bluefin tuna were feeding on. A couple of years ago Mark fished one of those flies on Cape Cod Bay for the better part of a week and caught a lot of large, early season striped bass. A week later he was in Baja chasing roosterfish and hung a few roosters, as well as skipjack tuna, on the same exact fly. Returning to Cape Cod Bay a few days later he was back into stripers and bluefish on the same fly. The only thing he changed was the leader. His comment to me was that he fishes the fly so much that he had no reason not to think roosterfish would eat the fly. I’m a firm believer that the success of a particular fly, wherever it is fished, and for whatever species it’s fished for, is only partially dependent on the fly itself. The rest of it comes down the angler. Time and experience are not sold with the fly; you’ve got to pay for that yourself. I saw a photo on social media recently of a tailing redfish in the grass. The post read something like, “What fly 32

would you use in this situation?” There were a lot of very specific answers and commentary. The best one was from Travis Holeman. He nailed it with, “The one in my hand.” Mic drop. Tie one on and get to it. KYPE Check out Mike Rice at: Web: www.muddogflies.com Blog: http://backwaterflats.blogspot.com/ Instagram: @muddogflies Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/muddogflies Mud Dog Saltwater Flies 55 Elm St. Marshfield, MA 02050

KYPE

Grandpa’s Potbelly Stove by Les Booth

Grandpa was a splendidly amazing man. Grandma agreed, he was splendid. Of course Aunt Eunice thought he was the most talented man alive. Uncle Burt was admittedly jealous of Grandpa’s rarified adventures. Aunt Marguerite just said, in a voice of utter embarrassment, “He was a painter, you know how they are.”

Creative Information Architect. Forty plus years graphic design, photographer, writer. Thirty-five plus years in technology. BSc AgSystems Management, Purdue University. Outdoor communicator. Lifelong outdoorsman. If it's about Story, I'm game. Native Hoosier. But home to all open, healthy water and elevations over 2000 feet.

To many who knew him, he was a consummate guide. To others he was the epitome of a fisherman. Yet others knew him though his paintings. Still others knew him as a writer. But no matter how they knew him, they all admired, respected, envied and enjoyed him. All-in-all, Grandpa was like that potbellied stove in the corner of his studio. Comforting to know he was there, when engaged he provided warmth, security and charm. Needed a little care, but only now and then, to run at maximum expectations. That pot belly stove…what storyline it could tell. When Grandpa and Grandma bought the old house, I knew as ‘their home,’ in late 1971, now nearly 100 years ago, it was in need of attention. That house could not have found two better caretakers and planners of a most wonderful future. Both saw in the old house; certainly by then, since it was built in 1942; a real warmth they could call home. And did they ever! Growing up on the other end of the small town where they lived, my life was lived at Grandpa’s place almost more than at home. I loved the smell of Grandpa’s studio. The paint, the linseed oil, camphor, turpentine...all things art. They mingled so well with the other three loves of Grandpa: fishing, hunting and writing. And then there was the pot belly. All of this was topped off with the aroma of firewood, devoured by flame. Grandpa loved every aspect of firewood. He loved being in the woods; choosing and cutting the right trees; by species, age and location in the woods. He loved the gathering and preparation by the hands and sore muscles he offered in the sacrifice that become fuel, providing heat in the studio during the cool fall and spring mornings as well as the cold Midwestern winters.

I hope you enjoy the eLITHOGRAPH, "Grandpa's Pot Belly"; 24"x 20", acrylic and watercolor. This image was made, courtesy of a base photo inspiration, with permission, by my good friend and artist/outdoorsman extraordinaire, Bob White. I truly appreciated Bob's granting me the use of this photo, it lends so much more heart to the story. Check out Bob's heart-felt Sporting Life art at his website bobwhitestudio.com and follow him on Facebook and Twitter.

Grandpa loved everything about the outdoors. It was his world. Everything he did was about being a part of the outdoors. Nothing gave him more satisfactionthan to have his work reflect the deepest appreciation of the outdoors. He would say, “If one person is inspired to spend more time outdoors by anything I do, then my life has more meaning that I could hope for.” This wasn’t a platitude for Grandpa; it was more than an attitude; it was his fuel. It was…him. When Grandpa stated building the studio he wasn’t sure what to do about heating the room. He liked the idea of wood stove, but wasn’t sure about fire amid the flammables of the painter’s livelihood. He talked to a number of his friends and they all assured him that if he kept the room well ventilated, he’d have no problem. One old painter from Idaho told him, that he’d be better off in many ways, to keep a window cracked open most of the time. “Give’s better air in the room, you don’t lose touch with the vitality of your 35

subject, and the only combustible left in the room will be you.” Grandpa said that was one of the pieces of advice he ever got. It worked, too. So the pot belly had a corner made just for it. Grandpa liked to say the studio was built around the pot belly. As he said, “That’s the best way to build a life…around the core of what you are most inspired to attain.” For a long time I didn’t understand that statement exactly. But now, some 25 years since Grandpa passed on, I am beginning to understand. Grandpa looked at that old pot belly as a dependable, serviceable, congenial element of his studio. Without it, the studio would still survive, but it would be less comfortable and minus an important element of character. It’s not absolutely essential for life, but it sure makes it more enjoyable. So the last piece of work done on the house and the studio was the placement of the old pot belly. And every morning, at the start of the late summer cool-down, right on through the warm up of early summer, Grandpa was on his knees placing kindling starter in the pot belly to begin a fire-for-the-day. How fitting then was it that on that late August morning, 25 years ago, that Grandma walked into the studio to call Grandpa for breakfast, that she found him kneeling at the pot belly, kindling on the grate, a ready-to-strike-match in his right hand, at rest, against the, still warm from the previous day’s fire, front of his old friend, the Pot Belly. Many friends mentioned his end would have been more -fitting- had his mortality arrived in a mighty struggle with a giant trout through a deep hole. Some thought it would have been more poetic, at-the-easel. Still others thought, at the old Underwood typewriter, he loved to coax a story from, though agnostic keys and cantankerous mechanics. But I don’t see it that way. I see that his end-of-days combined all of these. Because it was here. In the comfort of his old friend Pot Belly, whom he made all of those integral parts of himself, come-to-life. Here, in this small studio, the one I now paint, write and reminisce, is where the true magic that was Grandpa came to life. As well I, too, share the magic in the company of his warm friend, Pot Belly. Like Grandpa I kneel each cool morning and throughout the frigid winter, and give thanks for the memories; for the future; for the warmth and inspiration of this room and Pot Belly for the comfort to continue doing it all. If I am so fortunate, like Grandpa, Pot Belly will be my company into the next phase of eternity.

KYPE

Tippet the Fly-Fishing Dog: Adventures Fishing the Eclipse bby Ken Heldby

I started my journey of fly fishing and tying some 40 plus years ago, I have tried to be as innovative with my tying as I can with new materials making my flies durable and as realistic as I can. I do tying demonstrations to pass my knowledge on to others that have the same passion for fly tying that I do, and then spend many hours on the river testing them. In September 2014 some of my flies where published in Rick Takahashi’s newest book Modern Terrestrials and my journey continues.

ugust, 21, 2017 was a day that was unlike any other. It was a celestial event that left mankind in awe. Ancient civilizations thought that the world was coming to an end, and after witnessing this event first hand, I can understand why. It was truly an epic event and there are not enough words that can describe it. We have all seen pictures, which are said to be worth a thousand words but a thousand words seems to fall short. I started planning a fly-fishing trip with Tippet, the fly-fishing dog, months before the eclipse took place. I had to decide where to go and then how best to prepare. I decided to head to a spot above Lowman, Idaho on forest service road 515 where the center of the eclipse path would cross. Here, I’d fish Clear Creek while experiencing the total eclipse with Tippet. I left two days before the eclipse after first doing an event for the Idaho Angler at the Botanical Gardens. It was Bug Day for all the visiting kids, but I think the kids liked Tippet more than the bugs. The trip was easy with no traffic on Hwy 21 to Lowman. After a twenty-mile drive on FSR 582 out of Lowman, we turned onto 515. Tippet was looking out the window during our trip, watching the world go by. I could only hope that the camp site I had chosen would not look like Time Square on New Year’s Eve. I arrived at the chosen spot, and as soon as I parked, Tippet got excited and jumped out to explore what would be our new home for the next three days. I was surprised to find only one other camp there: the Sparkmans, a family from Whidbey Island, WA. They, too, had traveled to this spot to see the coming event and had traveled by ferry first and then drove for ten hours nonstop. I set up camp and joined the Sparkmans later that night at their camp, sitting around the lantern as there was a fire restriction throughout the state. We talked about the eclipse and how they had chosen their spot. It turns out that Russ had used the same line of thinking as I had in deciding to stay out of the main corridors of traffic for this event.

Sunday, I woke up with fish on the brain, and I started fishing near my campsite. But with all my planning, I had forgotten one thing: there was a fire there a year before. I couldn’t believe I had overlooked that. I found that the creek was bouncing back after the fire and had some small fish in it but none big enough to take a fly. The creek had lots of bugs in it and lots of clinger nymphs, which only like clean water with lots of oxygen. With that in mind, I drove down the creek and found a little spot of heaven out of the burn area and started fishing. Tippet wanted out of her carrier, so I put her on a little sandbar and started to fish. Tippet wasn’t interested in the fish but explored the little sandbar and the bushes alongside it instead. I hadn’t fished a small creek in years, and it was fun using my new 3wt. The fish didn’t care for the first few flies I tossed to them, so I attached a #14 Garcia hot butt, and it was game on. The first few fish at the bottom of the run were small, but they got bigger. I landed a nice 12” native rainbow, which is large for a creek where most fish are 68.” Tippet was ready to get back in her carrier, so I put her back in, and she was content to watch me continue to fish the rest of the afternoon. Fishing finally slowed, so I went back to camp and started getting ready for the big event the next day. I got out my GPS, picked the waypoint for the center line, and started down FSR 515 to the point that NASA had marked the eclipse path to cross. This ended being a short three-mile drive with rush hour equating to two squirrels, one chipmunk, and a ruffed grouse. The counter hit 0.0 and I was there. I was now at the spot, plus or minus nine feet, of dead center of the of eclipse totality. I marked the spot and went down to the creek to see where I would set up the cameras and the Idaho Angler banner for the eclipse. I found a spot that was flat and right next to the creek with a nice, deep pool. I went back to camp and started prepping the gear for the next day. Russ and I talked about camera exposure settings and how we would photograph the eclipse. Then I found out I didn’t have an SD card in my second camera. So much for planning! 39

The night was spent around the lantern eating chocolate, drinking wine and Strongbow cider, and playing Rummikub: a real neat game that will forces you to think. Russ played with his camera gear, getting some night shots of the Milky Way. He had some really nice camera gear, as he was the president of a media company, and his pictures came out great. I wish I had his gear! He got some great shots of Tippet. They all loved her. She made new friends quickly and easily, as always. I went back to my tent, and everyone turned in for the night. The Sparkmans would be leaving right after the eclipse and heading home. They had asked me the best way to go home, and I told them to take the road I had come in on, as it would take them right to the interstate when they reached Boise. The next day I woke up early, eating breakfast and having coffee while saying my goodbyes to the Sparkmans. My alarm went off to signal that the eclipse was about to start, and sure enough by the time I had got my eclipse glasses out, a small sliver of the sun was covered by the moon. I told Russ and his family that it had started, and they grabbed their glasses. We all stood in awe looking at the start of the eclipse and anticipating what was coming, I said my farewells to Russ and his family, turned the GPS on, and down the road I went. I got to my spot, and the GPS read 0.0, right where I had marked it the day before. I put on my fishing gear, put Tippet in her carrier inside my waders, grabbed the camera gear, and down to the creek I went. I got set up on the creek. Everything was ready. I went to the pool in the creek and started fishing but had no luck hooking up, as the fish where too small to get the fly into their mouths. I went back to the bank and started taking pictures of the eclipse. What a sight! The temperature started to drop fast. The bugs started coming out, and it was getting darker. We have all seen pictures of the eclipse, but pictures cannot do it true justice and canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t reflect the experience of being there, my second alarm went off, telling me the eclipse was just seconds away. I was taking pictures, and everything went dark in the camera. I thought I had bumped the camera, but noâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;it was full-on totality. I looked up at the sun, and it was gone. The birds had stopped singing, and the forest was dead quiet. Except for the creek, there was no noise. The full eclipse was a true sight to behold, and there are not enough pages here to describe what I witnessed. I could now see what all the hype was about, as I continued taking pictures, shot some 40

video, and then two minutes and 12.6 seconds later—it was over. The months of preparation had come down to this, and I was almost sad it was over, but I still had one thing left to do: catch a fish during the eclipse! I grabbed all the gear, put it in the van, and was off to where I had fished the day before. Tippet was excited and was running back and forth from one window to the other as I made my way back down the road. I honked and waved to the Sparkmans as I drove by. I arrived at the spot from the day before, and Tippet was ready to fish and wanted to get in her carrier. I put her in, safe inside my waders, and off to the creek we went. I still had about thirty minutes to make this happen. The fish were just waking up again, so it started out slow with lots of fish coming up and taking and missing. I couldn’t believe it! I was going to get shut out! Then, with fifteen minutes left: fish on! The fish wasn’t big, but what a fight this little one was giving me, clearing the water four times. Great fight from a fish that was only 8” long. I had done it! Joining a small club of fly fishers who successfully caught fish in the path of a total eclipse, I fished till it died when the sun came out and put the fish back on the bottom of the pool I was fishing. I returned to camp and started packing. I was in no hurry as I wanted the traffic to slow before I got on the road. The trip back was uneventful. Tippet slept most of the way back, and I was still taking in the eclipse and everything I had seen, wishing it had lasted longer. With this being the last issue of Kype, I’m glad I have been able to contribute to it. Aileen has done a wonderful job of it, as she does with everything. THANK YOU, Aileen. KYPE 41

39 Pounds of Teeth in a Donut Part III The Brakeuretor and the Kawishiwi Monster by By Les Booth

Previously on, "39 Pounds of Teeth in a Donut": When we left, our intrepid Boundary Waters travelers were getting checked into their next step, Cliff Wolds Outfitters in Ely, MN. The preparation was professional and efficient. Personal goods were gathered, placed into the transfer van. Everyone was eager to get onto the water as they made way to their seats in the van. Following the story of the Kawishiwi Monster, the group was primed for Big Fish. Ed and Jon exchanged comments… “Hei,” said Ed as he passed Jon, on his way to the check-in, “You sure put some teeth marks into that donut.” Jon replied, with his mouth stuffed full of donut and coffee, “Yaah! Laek a turty-nine poon paek puttin’ eez twooth in a doonoot.” OH!!! Had they only known. THE JOURNEY BEGINS Two months earlier I made reservations for entry into the Boundary Waters and outfitting from a prominent canoe livery out of Ely. Cliff Wolds is known for their attention to details, from life preservers to pre-packaged, home-made freeze-dried foods. We arrive to professional, informative, chatty service. It was a most welcome transition from our earlier encounters! As we loaded, ’WOW!' became the exclamation de jour. As in, "Wow, that's a lot of stuff." The uninitiated members stood looking upon the large amount of ‘cargo’ being assembled. The questions began. "Wow! That is a lot of stuff. Who has to carry that?” was asked. “Carry, in the North Woods country is a portage. To answer your question: we all do," I explained. "How many portages, will we have?” asked Stan. "Quite a few, I would imagine. It is the safest way to get around rapids.” I provided.

"What do you mean... rapids?” choked Tony. "Rapids? Oh, that’s where the river flows downhill; over rocks, becomes turbulent and dangerous. Canoes overturn, or capsize, in a rapids. Paths around the rapids are used. Those paths are called Portages.” I replied. "OK. So… do you carry the canoes and all the stuff in them… or what?” muttered several members. "Well, Yes, No and What.” I replied. "We empty the canoe, then carry the cargo across the portage; walk back and carry the canoes across.” "Are the canoes heavy?” gulped another. "All depends... on what you call heavy.” I grinned. "How much does this stuff weigh?” asked the youngest and smallest member. "Carmen, those big green canvas packs you see in front of you, weigh roughly 70 pounds apiece. How much do you weigh?” I asked. "Uh, I don't know Uncle Les." he replied painfully. Chuckling I said, "Well, Carmen, each pack weighs more than you. Don’t worry, you won't being carrying them. There's plenty of 'small stuff' you can help carry across. You’ll have your important part in the 43

portage adventures of our Journey." Carmen grinned and said, "Thanks Uncle Les.” ”No problem buddy, we’re on the same page," I assured him. “Two Duluth-packs fit into in each of the 4 canoes. Each canoe weighs roughly 75 pounds... empty. Paddles are snugged inside each canoe on the portage. Then, of course, there's all of your personal stuff you brought. Remember when I said, "Limit your personal pack to 30 pounds or less?” they all looked around at each other sheepishly. "Now you see, there was good reason why I said that. Each person needs to jump in and help carry from end-to-end on each portage." Carmen's eyes got big, then teared up. "I'll never be able to carry that much, Uncle Les!” "Don't worry Carmen. No one expects you to. That's where Uncle Jon and Uncle Stan come in,” I said with a twinkle that rolled out so easily. Despite being busy, both namesakes heard the announcement. They looked up and winked. I knew THAT wink. I knew I would pay dearly for the load put on their backs. But, we all knew we'd be pulling extra as needed. It would be a workout for sure. That was a big part of the Boundary experience. If you didn't return with sore muscles, sunburn and mosquito bites, you really didn't experience the Boundary Waters! "Do we need all of this stuff?" asked Carmen, still with big, teary eyes. “Yes Carmen we do. But, here's the good part. It starts out heavy, but each day it gets lighter and you get stronger. So by the time we come out, those packs only weigh 15-20 pounds each and the canoes begin to feel light-as-a-feather. In-the-end, it all evens out.” I said, then added, "To boot, you get to have the best time of your life! $20 says you'll be talking about the 'Next Trip,' by the third day and crying because you have to leave when we are driving back home." Carmen grinned, without saying anything. He wasn't sure about it, either way. But he had something less terrifying to think about and that was all that mattered right then. I turned and said, "This Journey has but Two Hard-n-Fast Rules.” Number 1: Each person pulls his own -as able- with no complaints or the ration of food can get very slim. Number 2: Everybody must have fun!!! If you're not having fun, I'm not having fun and that isn't something either of us want to be around for. This seemed to jerk them back into reality and quickly quiet the questions. My title of friend began to slip when they sensed the whip-in-my-voice. 44

Reality does have a nasty tendency to bite. The livery-ride was smooth and uneventful, as the weather began to clear. By the time we put the canoes in the water, our great adventure was beginning in full sun. It felt good and pushed the spirits high. Everyone was in agreement: things were beginning to look UP! THE HUNT The morning of the fourth day found us 35 miles east-northeast of Ely, heading up the Alice Lake and Kiwishiwi River drainage. I decided to go out early, before sunrise, to investigate potential good fishing spots. I was on a mission. I had to find a place that would win me back some respect. The guys were expecting some truly memorable Boundary Waters fishing; casting into and over, big fish and plenty of them. Don’t get me wrong, we had fish to eat; and plenty of it. But the 'newbie members' wanted a bit more. They constantly reminded me about the 'big fish of the north’ stories. I understood. They actually thought they wanted to tie into a big fish. To fight and land something bigger than the pan size walleye and smallmouth bass they’d been eating. What they were dreaming of was a monster Northern Pike; wall-hanger bronze back smallmouth bass or brag-board walleye. So, I did what any good guide would do, I got busy finding sizable fish! Loading the kevlar canoe, I thought: the tube. The tube would be a good scouting tool for the back bays filled with fresh stands of wild rice; places to encounter big Northern Pike, on the lookout for a sumptuous breakfast. I tossed it in and shoved off. It was cool, so those neoprene would feel pretty good after a couple hours of dangling legs in chilly northland waters. They get and stay cool; water and legs! I hadn’t actually caught a big pike from a tube yet; I salivated at the thought. I first heard of catching big pike from a float-tube, reading an article by Larry Dahlberg in a 1987 issue of In-Fisherman magazine. Since then, the adventure danced through my imaginary trophy room. The early morning fog, as common to the north woods as the call of a loon, brought back memories of the pike hanging on my wall back at home. I caught her back in July 1981 on a lower section of the Kiwishiwi River. Ralph, as she became so affectionately known, touted impressive measure: 27-pounds 4-ounces, 47-inches long; with busting, 24-inch girth. I caught her on a mere whim, which was nothing shy of pure luck, considering my equipment. She

scared the pee-woddins out of me! What in Dahlberg would I do if I had a pike came over the side of my float-tube? What if it was bigger? My pulse raced to think of the possibility. So much so, I began building a sizable wake behind that canoe. I was PUMPED! Time passed quickly. The section of the river between Amber and Bow Lakes widens, with cliff edges of deep water; areas prime for big pike moving between feeding grounds. I was looking for smallmouth bass locations first, so I headed for an island I could see ahead. Circling, I tested for smallmouth bass, catching a few small fish, but none of any bragging size. Casting a sizable Dahlberg Diver, my mind wandered to fish with big teeth. It was then I caught site of a huge rice bed on the east bank. Structure known to provide a big-pike-feed. I paddled up carefully to the outer edge and immediately began to see the familiar streamers of fish — big fish— moving just below the surface, leaving the familiar 'V' shape of as they passed. The stands of rice rocked back and forth like a herd of rhinos were romping through it. Oh! My pulse quickened. I looked for an opening; soon finding an appealing entry. A sort of stream-like portal, inviting me inward, so I followed. After what seemed like a mile; with all the twists and turns; but couldn’t have been more than a few hundred yards; I came upon some very shallow water littered with bluegill beds. I couldn't believe it. Shocked to find bluegill this far north. Rejoining my Hoosier roots as an honorable farm pond young ‘in, I rigged my rod as fast as I could. The action took off quickly as I was into some king-sized bluegill fun. After a half-an-hour of gill-fun, I remembered the tube. “Hmm?” I thought. The float-tube would be a fun way to tackle the little broadside bruins. The water was just right, at about 8 foot deep. Just enough color to retain visibility, yet cast a muted shadow against the sky. The sun was up higher, so the lighting was good. Everywhere I could see big bluegill swimming below me. I just couldn’t take it anymore. With some serious struggle, I squeezed into my neoprene waders. Not an easy task on dry land. A real tussle in the bottom of a canoe, in open water. Too bad there wasn’t someone around to videotape it. I’m sure it would have been a winner on any TV show. Finally. Settled, suited and inflating the tube, I began to wonder how the heck I was going to get into the blasted thing! Pondering the predicament of safe entry, I noticed a tiny area ahead where I could get to some ground, beach the canoe, then launch the float-tube. It took some doing, but I managed to land the canoe and launch the tube. It wasn’t pretty, but all was forgotten once in the tube-platform and I begin catching big bull-bluegills. My fly-fishing arsenal wasn’t ideal for bluegill. Choosing to accommodate the expected range of encountered fish, I donned a 7wt Fenwick Iron Feather graphite rod, with a simple Cabela's graphite reel, loaded with a 7wt shooting head made from a bass-taper floating line. It was a bit less fun with bluegill, 46

but, in the event of a big pike, I had rod to handle it. I hoped! From my 500-denier-nylon-inflated-tutu, I tied on a sinking tip leader, adding a simple tippet of 4# test Trilene mono. Gills are not nearly as picky as trout. Just put the fly in front -shake it- and hold on! DENIZEN DANCE My first bull-bluegill was a monster for this far north; 12" long easily and a hefty 6” wide! I released an easy 1.5 pound 'gill on the first take of a prince nymph floated just above the beds. If this was the indicator, the day was going to be a Good’n! As I cast, caught and released the, seemingly thousandth 'gill, I noticed a huge streamer of a very big fish, coming out of the reeds, right at me. It had to see me, but, it wasn't veering off course one bit. The wave was making a bee-line right for me and the tube. I figured it was a fair-sized pike, making for a bluegill posting in the shadow of the tube. I've had many largemouth Poseidon from beneath, out of a weedy bottom, to take bluegill staging just below me in the tube-shadow. I've had a few crash into my butt, in their unrecoverable-rocket-trajectory. Thumped in the arse by a big bass is a most unnerving event; even if you know it's coming! But this was different. Serious teeth, attached to this “V”, had ME in the torpedo's path. Sharp teeth and inflated tubes over 10-feet of water do not a fun-day make! I began to sweat. There was more than a bit of a 'deflating feeling’ tugging at my nerves. I hadn’t considered water -outside of 'gator water’- concern for fear. I’ve paddled around with big snapping turtles and other big fish over deep water, donned with dangling flippers, and never thought of being afraid. I remember all too well the day on a golf course on Jekyll Island, GA, watching my dad become airborne, while eclaired into an old-style 'float-tube,' just moments from stepping into a pond beside a 10-foot alligator! Seeing my dad dance in mid-air like a man possessed with self-preservation emblazoned on me two things NOT to do in a float-tube. 1) Do NOT go into a body of water with even a suspect of alligator presence. 2) Do NOT even think of doing the same in salt-water..! Both, I had successfully avoided. The thought of being seen as a pig-in-a-blanket on some primordial brain's menu was a strong deterrent. However, I had the sickening feeling I’d just broken BOTH Rules! I was feeling very vulnerable and 47

beginning to feel… well… terrified! This BIG-FISH was coming straight at me. And if I didn’t know better, I was on the menu! Water clarity and acute angle in early morning light revealed a form more like a cigarette-boat than a mere motor-boat. The form barreling down upon me had 'Body-by-Pike' written all over it. Swallowing hard and fast, I began to back-paddle with a sincere interest in getting the “holy-heck” out of this freshwater Leviathan's way. Then, as quickly as he appeared, the Leviathan disappeared. To where, I didn't much care. I was relieved it was gone. I carefully and slowly, trying to not disturb the water more than necessary, made my way back toward the canoe. Then it hit me. What on earth was I thinking? Was I nuts or what? Starring me, right in the face, was both opportunity and point-of-focus for coming to the Boundary Waters. Big pike in a float-tube. Here I was running like a frightened child. Seriously Dude... Man UP! I lectured that inner-child. I pulled-on the big-boy-shorts, donned the “Larry-look,” reached for the pike flies and got to catching a big pike! THE TASTE FOR BATTLE My Pike Box contained, Dahlberg MegaDivers, in 4 favorite colors; Bunny-Strip Leeches, in color and size choice; and a couple of home brewed special’ tied by my buddy, Ed; back at camp, no doubt wondering where in tarnation I was at the moment; called the, Pike Roachie. I decided to remove the sinking-tip leader; replace it with a short 3’, 10# braided leader section, tied with an Albright knot, to a 40#, shock-leader of mono-coated wire, twisted with an 8-twist -away from the hook-eye- to form a loose-eye-loop. I then heated the plastic coating to seal the wrap. Hopefully it would be strong enough to match the brute force of the big pike gunning for me and the tube. A chartreuse 'n yellow Dahlberg Mega Diver, tied to a 2/0 TMC 8089 hook was the fly of choice. The big pike was moving just below the surface. It only made sense that’s where he was feeding; subsurface and surface. I thought about putting on the Pike Roachie. To go deep and dredge the weeds at 6’ to 8.’ I decided to go top first, then hit the depths if the top action didn’t happen. I began false casts over to the left of the reeds. The Dahlberg Mega diver is a big, bulky fly. It doesn’t weigh much, but it still requires serious attention to putting it, into the air and keeping it on-target. Thus, most of my concentration was on keeping the rod loaded and the line in a tight loop. That’s why, when on the third false cast I saw 25' behind me, glancing over my shoulder, while keeping an eye on the track of line and fly, I saw the water explode. The explosion catapulted a 6-pound pike, 48

into the air, engulfing the labored-fly, then crashing back into the water. HELL NO, he didn't get it! I pulled that fly back so quick, he wouldn't have caught it unless he was traveling at Mach 2 or higher! “KRAAAAP! THAT scared me!” I yelled. Scaring myself again as the alien sound echoed off all surfaces, breaking the previously placid silence of the morning. The echo trailed off into the surrounding trees. As it faded, an eerie quiet swept through its wake. My pulse was pounding so hard I couldn't even cast. All I could do was sit there in the middle of, what seemed to be a pike cafeteria, and attempt to gather what was left of my composure. Hey, I know we all dream of this kind of excitement. But reality is, we never think it will actually happen. So when it does, the surprise is likely to be overwhelming! Yes. It’s a reasonable —even plausible—explanation for why we experience a state of near catatonic shock when—The Moment— does happen. I was beginning to flashback to the Kawishiwi Monster! The flashback-moment was not long-lived. Still recovering from the shock of the crazed, kamikaze-pike, I stared, drained, at the water in front of me. The mid-morning light was dancing on the ripples of the leaping-pike aftermath. I was ripe; lapsing into a state of adrenal hypnosis. Sitting and staring at nothing. The adrenaline slowly seeped from my system. I felt weak. Sleepy. Listless. Meanwhile back in the real world: Part I IF you’ve been thinking ahead, you may have wondered, “Where's the fly?” You know, the one the leaping-Nijinsky-pike attempted to bite? Yeah, that one. It could have been on some asteroid as far I knew or cared! Somewhere in the range of the normal heart rate for a hummingbird, my biological bilge-pump was struggling to regain control. Consequently my brain was a bit behind in processing data. A bit behind! Hello! Brain-central was, at this point, DOA! On my way back into the near realm of consciousness I was just beginning to consider the question. “Where *IS* my fly?” In a half-hearted effort to locate the fly, I looked up. I didn’t see the fly, but I saw the largest, most aggressive, boiling water ‘V’, ever! 20-feet out and closing FAST! 49

The BIG-FISH was back and I was still in its sights! SLOW MOTION REIGNS Remember when you were a kid, right before something really bad happened. The time when the grapevine broke, or the tree limb snapped, or the fence between you and the big dog didn’t hold, or the tires began to lose traction around the 25-mph-corner at 60 mph? In all these life altering moments, life just retards into a state-of-slow-motion. Like you’re not there. You feel you’re standing outside of yourself, looking in. You hear a frightened child’s voice, screaming its lungs out. But no one can hear. “HEEELLLLLP… MEEEEE!!!” Praying, ‘This mess just can’t be happening!’ Right? Then, as suddenly as my Black Hole Moment began, it was over. The Trident-submarine-like pike, Poseidon’s in an emergency blow: full body into the surface film and it was HUGE! Then just as quickly it was gone. It dove down, vanishing. No sign of it except the waves lapping now on the front of my, feeling terribly inadequate, float-tube. I turned to look at the now bobbing-on-the-surface, Dahlberg Diver, displaying a ‘come and get it’ dinner bell taunt, with each pulsing ripple. I was just beginning to register the fly’s precarious position, when the water, beneath the fly roiled. The entire surface exploded into the biggest, most nasty set of teeth I have ever seen. The teeth came straight up, out of the water, towing behind it a huge head, being catapulted by a gigantic body, engulfing the now, teeny, tiny 12-inch long, Mega Diver. Rocketing, the entire quivering mass, to what seemed a destined high-altitude-orbit. With the trailing Dahlberg Diver, pierced, firmly into the left corner of its mouth. GULP! It has been said, prior to a near-death experience a person’s entire life passes through their mind’s eye. That Mega Diver didn't have a chance, I was doing it all for both of us! Snapped back to reality by line screaming off the reel, I raised my lightweight graphite fly rod; or rather, tried to. It now seemed to weigh a hundred pounds. Bleary-eyed, I struggled with reflex. Response time? Phufff! There was no response. Awareness was awake, but no-one-was-at-home. It was like a nightmare action sequence. Only the sense of struggle moved; nothing else could! I struggled. When I finally got the rod-to-hand, I was greeted by a hefty, aggressive, in-progress-fight! It was …PIKE ON!! The hook was —without doubt in my mind— tangled in that monster’s shoelaces, the way he, she, it — or whatever—engulfed the fly. The moment the line tightened I witnessed a wonder-of-nature, Big Fish can truly fly. It's true. Lord's-eye! 50

Catapulted skyward, the pike came out of the water, dancing on its tail for 6 or 7 feet across the water. Then down again, stripping line off at a rate, the great-for-bluegill-graphite-reel, struggled to maintain! In a bolt-of-reality; like a lightning strike; I suddenly realized what was going on! I HAD A MONSTER PIKE ON THE END OF MY FLY LINE. I HAD TO LAND THIS SON-OF-A-BIGFISH! PROWESS RETHINK In a flash we were hurtling down the narrow channel. Slicing a wide swath through the rice stands, WE went. Half thinking, half pure instinctual reaction, I attempted to slow the big pike down with my flippers stuck out in front of me like a bulldogger in a rodeo. I attempted to slow it. Right! If I did anything but stick my feet straight-out in front of me, I went into a side-to-side kamikaze-flail! Thoughts of flipping the donut were not even allowed. I just locked those flippers in like a water-skier and went along for the ride. I don't really know how far we went; I just hoped it wasn’t too far. Float-tubes are a real pain-in-the-butt to move long distances. That’s not a rhetorical statement. At what seemed to be around 500 yards down the channel, I noticed the line go slack. “Oh Crap!! I lost it!” I screamed to my audience of the great uninterested outdoors. Reeling up the slack as fast as I could, I was secretly half hoping the big pike would be gone. Knowing full well, that if that big pike was gone I would be one-pissed-off-mud-puppy. Baring only a half-hearted action, but a determined passion, I desperately tried to gain some ground on the fish with the entirely out-classed graphite reel. Mental NOTE: Remember to USE the 'real reel' for the next Monster Pike outing...! The fleeting feeling of gaining ground didn't last long. About the time I got the slack in, Ol' Mack-Truck-Pike decided to rev up the engine and blast-off with another head of steam. I don’t know why the tippet didn't break when the big pike lunged forward. I guess it was the superior knotting job I did? KNOT HARDLY! It had to be some extended curse of the Piscatorial gods for which I was being primed. No doubt!! 51

Under steam again, there was NO WAY of getting line back. We moved with a speed that could have passed for a powerful trolling motor. The pike was making for the channel. Where else we'd go from there, only IT knew, because I sure as 'HELL-O’ wasn’t the one in control. Contented to travel, since I didn’t have a choice in the matter. I sure as heck wasn’t about to cut-the-line. But I wasn’t really happy to see this big pike tow my sorry butt-filled-tube out to the open water either. Resolved to the current, I made like the Greyhound Bus commercial: I left the driving up to old big pike. One thing was for sure. I was glad to be on an inland body of water and not at sea. What a bummer that would be. To be in-tow at the mercy of a huge fish in a nylon-glazed-donut bookin’ it for the open sea. Now that would be something to strike fear! As we cruised toward the open water my mind decided it was time to develop a new worry. Oh, great! All it had to do was watch as I held on for the ride, so why not? The questions came in a rush: 1) Would I be able to land this big pike? 2) What the heck was I going to do with the big pike once I had it 'on-board'? 3) What if the big pike decided he wanted to ride or attack, the tube? Imagination is a terrible thing to push into disturbing questions. Chugging down a narrow channel, out toward open water, with safety of the canoe back there; about a mile from open water; with a crazed monster pike in control. You know, maybe the mind isn’t such a terrible thing to waste after all! Yes. There was a simple solution to the whole ordeal: cutting the line. But, that came at a cost I was not willing to assume. Yet! Meanwhile back in the 'real' world: Part II The line goes slack again as the pike takes another break. Nothing like the sensation of sudden change. Shifting of a paradigm or not, sudden change is a jolt, bringing one back to the Here-and-Now. A realworld kick-in-the-pants! Just in time for a major mix-up, my critical body functions, all connected to my mush-for-brains, decide to come online. My hands kick-in to reel in line. Then my eyes start processing information. Then, just as the big pike begins to rise to the surface; out about 10-feet and drifting in the direction of my very vulnerable nylon-glazed-donut; my feet decided to paddle. A seriously bad idea, with the big pike looming close with marauding intentions. I enjoyed those old Hewlett-Packard commercials that used the now familiar query, "What if...?" It provided some serious helpful thinking for times like… NOW! But, folks, NONE of those trips prepared me for what happened next! In a heartbeat, I had all 48+ inches of really pissed-off, bruiser-sized, Esox lucius doing a body slamming, 52

toothed-lap-dance...in my lap! That freaking Big Fish had jumped into the tube with me! ABANDON SHIP!!! BUT I CAN’T! There just wasn't any place for me to go. So, the fish had to go. Flopping and rolling, the Big Fish was sliming everything above water-line. Jaws chomping at the air like a Tarzan-movie crocodile action scene. Ol’ Mack Truck Pike was making a real mess of me and everything I had in that float-tube. At this point, I had no intention —and less desire— for landing that fish. It had suddenly slipped to last place in my quivering gray matter. Frankly, I was a bit more concerned about getting IT… outta my face! What seemed like forever, had really been but a few seconds, The Pike ends up in my arms and immediately, I hurled it back into the water. “Wow! What a BIG FISH! Why, that bruiser most likely made world class trophy on the line class I was using,” I said to myself in the wake of the splash and commotion. Then… the Brain suddenly hit a new cog. It thought… and began begging for an explanation to a simple question. WHY did I do, THAT!?! I just threw a trophy fish back into the water. He will break the line and my trophy will be gone. No pictures, no witnesses, no fish. Nothing to show for it but elevated blood pressure, a wet butt and a hungry gut. The absolute worst kind of that old fisherman’s luck rip. Amazing, isn’t it? How rapidly we disassociate from trauma? With a splash, to equal a Baby Huey cannon ball dive, the Pike hits the water and begins thrashing like a Maytag washer in heat. Mr. Pike was making quite a fuss. Suddenly, all I could think of was: “When the Pike finally gets straightened out, he would be a free puppy and I would be a sad fisherman.” My mother's warning of, “… chicks before they hatch,” hung in the air. But I had only one question: “Which ‘chick’ had I counted too early, a hummingbird or a Harpy eagle?” I reckon I counted too quickly on a free ticket out of purgatory cause the Pike wasn't finished with me yet! 53

This Pike cared nothing for the concept of Catch & Release. It was clear, he fully intended to engage the harvest clause of 'Selective Harvest' to land his first human! And for all it was worth, I had the dubious front row ticket. I envisioned it this way: as soon as he was in the water, he would be off and making a beeline for the nearest patch of weeds to hide out. I would sulk and be oppressively pissed off. End of story. WRONG. Not this puppy. Not this Big Pike. He had REVENGE on his minuscule brain and I was the target, in his sights. Animals don’t think; not like humans do. But every now and then you will run into a really intelligent one; beyond the normal expected range of animal intelligence. When that happens all bets are off and the human in the picture had better hope they had done their What if...' homework well. Because they are going to need it. Yep. This fish was one of those exceptional cases. Wouldn't you know it, I would be so lucky as to piss-off the only smart, mean, Northern Pike in the Boundary Waters. I couldn't pick on some little wimpy pike with no brains and a yellow streak. No, I had to tackle with the Schwarzenegger in this corner of the pike world. Just when you think it can’t possibly get worse. It does! With a mighty FLOP! and seismic roll, the Big Fish flopped his way over next to my float-tube. And in one Big Ol’Chomp... You guessed it... HISsssssssssSSSSssssss!!! Oh Joy! Now I had a new set of variables. I was in the middle of goodness knows how deep a hole of water; being actively stalked by a possible man-eating Pike and now had a number of major wounds, pouring the ‘life’ out of the old nylon-glazed donut. KILL THE &*!@#%$^** FISH!!! My first reaction. How the heck do I get out of this, sinking, busted rubber before I drown... or worse yet, become the first human ever eaten by a pike? My first question. Haven't I been here before …? 54

Suddenly I had a real urge to bust Larry Dalhberg's nose for getting me into this fine mess! Why? Well, it was his fault. If he hadn't made it look so easy and exciting I wouldn't have ever.... OK! OK! So I would have anyway, but at times like this it just feels better to think your troubles are the result of someone else’s insane actions... not your own ignoramus stupidity! The whole situation was bad enough without admitting it was my fault! Frantically I started back-paddling towards the weeds. Reaching them would be my salvation. I began to notice the weed line wasn't in open water as I had first thought. There was a tiny strip of land just past the line of reeds. YES! I could now make it to land, piece things back together and get out of this mess. In my confusion, I forgot all about The Pike. It was replaced by thinking of getting out this tube; fixing it and getting back to the canoe. The big-game fishing urge had vanished. My goal now, get on dry land: ALIVE! Thank goodness I did. But it wasn't easy. As ‘luck’ would have it, the bank was slick-as-snot for a tube exit, but I managed to get out without drowning myself. I would have died of embarrassment anywhere else. But here? I was kissing the muck slimed sliver of land, just to be out of the water. With only the backrest still inflated, I noted a ‘Thumbs Up’ on safety factor of the inflatable backrest. Climbing up onto shore I stepped out of the tube and laid my rod down and got busy fixing the battered donut. It took me about 30 minutes and I was in business. Time to reel up and get back to the canoe. I picked-up the rod and began to reel in the line. When I was a little kid I use to play this game I called, ‘Wonder what's around the corner'. I'd be out in the woods, climbing on rocks, making tunnels in haystacks or some other kid adventure type stuff and would start to ask...’Wonder what's around the corner?' Sort of the kid game version of the Hewlett-Packard, “What IF...” Invariably I would be surprised by what appeared. I didn't realize it, but I was in for a surprise. A very BIG surprise. It … The Big Pike …WAS STILL THERE! Yeepin’ Yimmanies! 55

What was this fish? Some sort of possessed demon-monster of the deeps, haunting the Boundary Waters? Was IT going to come on land next? I didn't know, but this was not natural. No leader or tippet, no matter how strong could still be holding this fish after all that abuse! This wasn't right... This just wasn't right! It just can’t be! This wasn't right! "WAKE UP!” “Hey! Wake up!” “Put down that fork!” “Awe’ Man!! You just spilled the coffee! What do you think you’re doing?” “Klutz!" KLUTZ????? “What the heck? Don't tell me the pike can talk, too. And, of all things! It sounded just like Jon! This has got to be the strangest… strangest...” “Hey Les! Wake up..! Dang! WAKE UP before you trash the entire Perkins restaurant,” yelled Jon. “You're dreaming man! WAKE UP! Hey, WAKE UP!” DREAM? “I only wish,” I slurred. Slowly I began to roll out of the fog. “Huh? What? Perkins? Coffee? Fork? Jon? What the ‘HELL-o’ is going on,” kept looping in my ears. Blinking at all the bright lights, I just made out startled faces of my traveling companions. In a fuzzy perimeter I saw, a few tables away, a couple staring, wide-eyed, in my direction. Then it hit me! “OoooooH Maaan! I’m havin’ a DREAM!! It’s only a stinking dream,” I said in a half-stupor of muddled disbelief. NO Boundary Waters! NO Big Tooth-Punctured SINKING Tube! NO DEAMON-PIKE waiting to eat me! NO TROPHY fish! NOTHING!! 56

Nothing, but a big donut on my plate with a still swinging fork stuck in it, soaking up the spilled coffee. All that adrenaline. All that excitement, for nothing. Nothing but a dream! When my eyes finally cleared and the old soggy-brain began to function. A bleary memory of pulling into the Perkins restaurant, dead-tired and needing coffee, reformed. From that point forward… it was all neuron-deprivation, creating an alternate reality. Man! Was I in for a good ribbing! I knew it wouldn't lose much intensity over the coming weeks. Cobwebs cleared and the ribbing at full tilt, it was time to get back on the road. We cleared out of the Perkins dreamland. We were seven friends On our way to the Boundary Waters for a week on the water for outdoor fun. On the drive up, talking to the others, about the exciting fishing we could all expect. Big pike, smallmouth bass and walleye lay waiting for us to pluck them from the watery bin for our enjoyment. Regaling stories of Larry Dalhberg’s article in an old ‘87 In-Fisherman magazine, showing Larry, fishing from a float-tube landing huge pike; the very picture of MY expectation for this trip. Man! Had I ever set myself up for a whopper of a tale! Sleep deprivation and the first shift driving, set me up for an easy slip into a fractured, Tim-Burtonesque world of the weirdest of fishing nightmares. But, it all seemed so REAL? “I still can’t believe how real it all was.” I said to the group. “Yeah, it must have been,” said Ed. “You were really twitching back and forth there at one point. We almost woke you up, but frankly we wanted to see just how far you’d go before you woke yourself up.” Laughter broke out on this bit of Ed’s dry humor. But I was thinking. I remember very distinctly that each of the three incidents were so believable. The first two were from previous trips to the Boundary Waters that really had happened. But neither the guys in Eau Claire or the adventure on the Kiwishiwi were as harrowing, or as weird as in the dream. But they did happen. So. Does this mean the big pike adventure —WILL— happen? Will I have my Larry Dahlberg moment in the float-tube? Will I catch my dreamed of monster pike at water level? Will it try to eat me? Will I catch it or lose it? Hmmm. All interesting questions. All unknown at the moment. 57

Then I heard it. That small voice. The one from the dream. It was beginning to scream. I listened. Contemplated. Thought a bit, then said, “Let it scream! There’s a ride here. I’m gonna take it. See where it goes. I am no longer in a quandary. Not this time.” I was heading out the door of Perkins, for the van … and an unknown Adventure, with my name written all over it with 7 Friends in tow to the Boundary Waters. I thought, as I raised the hood on the van, “Maybe I shouldn’t have ignored, ‘The Voice’?' Well, I’m betting on the low level of brake fluid I just saw that the answer would be, No Way!

“C’mon guys! Adventure awaits!”

KYPE

Kype would like to thank David Pierson for sharing his photos with us. Check out his Instagram page: Tie1onflyfishing KYPE

email: davidpierson1776@gmail.com

Resurrection of Black Lanes Laire - vocals, guitars, keyboards, bass pedals Matt Bissonette - bass Gregg Bissonette - drums Jeana Olivia - harmony vocals