Worms, Salmon Eggs, Marshmallows, Erin and S’mores

by Erin Block via MidCurrent

It’s about tying nice flies…
FlyDesigner-1 by Erin Block

but maybe s’more than fly tying, it’s about love.
the love of doing something oneself, of giving it ‘that special touch’, of adding a bit of your personality; what some may refer to as ‘soul’ to everything you do to make every moment, your moment. of not doing good but of doing nice.
personally, i’ll add an extra layer of chocolate to my S’mores so the marshmallow goo is completely surrounded by the good stuff. after the tenth or so i might keep the same inner configuration and work on the crust volume by adding another layer of chocolate on top (and bottom) of each cracker and then add another cracker top and bottom as crust.
a sandwich within a sandwich…

’nuff said. here’s Erin’s top cracker-
“Once upon a time, in a world not as very far away as we like to think, we had to tie our own flies. Just like we had to grow our own food and build our own homes. And we did these things, and they were hardy and served us well. There was no online ordering, no fly shop bin of options, no grocery store or butcher. You did it yourself because you had to. And sometimes life still requires of us that we take up the slack and drive like we know where we’re going—there will be time for looking at the map when you’re lost.  As I often feel, discouraged, sitting at my tying desk.”

and here’s the bottom one-
“One of the things that sticks with me is not the catching, not the fish.  Rather, it’s watching a new fly tied the night before swim lucidly through a backcountry lake, never ceasing to make me feel like a kid again, surprised by the fact that it works. Casting out I do it again, but only for myself, not for the trout. Because it’s not about not half-assing it.  It’s about tying nice flies.”

CrumplerCricket2 by Erin Block

if you liked the crunchy parts, click either pick for the soft, delicious, creamy filling.
enjoy !

“Be obscure clearly”

Elwyn Brooks White

“No, they are imaginary tales… But real life is only one kind of life — there is also the life of the imagination.”

%22be obscure clearly%22

The View From Coal Creek

-Reflections on Fly Rods, Canyons and Bamboo-

what a nice treat and just in time for the holidays ! one of my all time favorite fly fishing writers, Erin Block the woman behind the awesome Mysteries Internal blog has just finished what i’m more than certain will be by judging her wonderful writing, a milestone in fly fishing literature.
if you’re not familiar with Erin’s world, click the link above and you’ll see what i mean. magical…

“The View from Coal Creek is a reflection on fly rods, fishing, and life seen from the vantage of a canyon in Colorado, but these are props in a larger story about life, love, and tradition. Erin Block is a young, powerful voice carrying the torch and passing on lessons, values, and history of this great, literary and vibrant sport.”

 the view from coal cree- erin block

available in just a few weeks, click the pic to pre-order yours from Whitefish Press at a special price as soon as possible as i’m sure they’ll go fast.

The Dancing Cast.

by Erin Block
what a hard task it would be to pick a favorite among  Erin’s writings. each one creative, sensitive and oft darn-right beautiful, her words couldn’t come at a better time in the world of fly fishing literature. 

here’a a little snippet of one that particularly touched me. 


 ” I watched, as a wild wallflower.

 Observing.

His left hand pulled….up…..down….up….down — in time with his right arm’s back, forward…..back…..forward. A perfect 4/4. Like a metronome. I started tapping my foot. I stepped behind him, onto an old abandoned road. I looked into him as a mirror, and saw myself. “

click here for the rest and be sure to stay and discover other stories on her wonderfully haunting blog, Mysteries Internal.

 


On Ethics.

by Erin Block

“Fly fishing has a heritage of a fairly caught fish, and I want to be a bearer of this – even, if sometimes it is a burden and even, if it sometimes means long stretches of fishless days. I suppose my Midwestern Protestant upbringing understands and feels right at home with this, with the weight of expectation in action upon my shoulders — that there are things you just don’t do, out of principle and also, tradition. Sometimes the answer, “it’s just not right,” needs no explanation.”
more HERE

Ethics: oh boy, that’s a big one. that nasty word that generates so much love and hate, personal opinions of right and wrong all the while separating instead of reuniting. if you break it down, it’s a matter of faith, what one believes but maybe mostly what one wants to believe.

please take the time to read Erin’s article and the ongoing replies as this concerns all of us as fishers regardless of laws and regulations. there’s a lot of food for thought mixed in with ‘fodder for a bad fire’ as my grandmother used to say.

The Jazzed-Up Cobra Contest ! Third Entry

today’s entry is by Erin Block. be sure to check out her fantastic blog page Mysteries Internal, a real gem.

My life was lived between lines far before the floating or sinking variety. They were staved lines; measured, and often also used in a 4/4 rhythm. I studied music (classical guitar) in college and I can still hear my professor asking…

“Can you feel the pulse?”
No.

“I didn’t think so, because I can’t either.”

I would go home from lessons frustrated, almost always frustrated. Why couldn’t I feel it? I thought I had, but it obviously wasn’t the real thing — much like a first love. You think what you’re feeling is true, but in the end discover it isn’t.

So to train myself to feel, I would sing the melody line and listen for natural breaths and pauses. Listening for silence in noise. Looking for stationary in movement. And I would dance around the room, stomping my feet and letting my arms sway and swing however they liked – letting the music come out of me before I tried to put myself into it. This feeling and studying and looking for pulses now translates lines of another sort….fly lines.

As a fly fisherman, I still have to feel the pulse – of my fly line, my rod, the waters, and their trout. I cast, and the vibrations of my rod tell me whether it will be a good cast or not. I know even before it lays out. When it falls flat or tangles up, I still hear — you weren’t feeling the beat, were you. No. I wasn’t. Because when I can – when I pay attention and listen; especially, to the silence — my lines are smooth.

And when I stand for a second on the river’s bank, closing my eyes and letting the water’s sound envelop me, I feel like I’m dancing out lines of music again – letting the water come into me before I attempt to go into it. Then, I can feel its pulse – and then, I can wade into it, sure of its rhythm.