The Fall of (Fisher)Man

There are a few moments in fly fishing that exist crystallized in your mind. A first fish, a large trout sipping a dry fly, a trophy tarpon. These events stick with us as anglers for a lifetime. They find their way into our subconscious, rising up from the depths as we warmly regard times on the water. Haunting yet reassuring, these memories tether our present to our past. They make you feel life, and make you feel alive.

You know, like falling in and filling up your waders for the first time.

Because cold water hitting your “underwaders” reminds you that you are alive and able to feel the river in nooks and crannies much more real than flowery prose can describe.

Haunted by waters? You bet I was. I was haunted until I pulled my frigid, soaked wool socks from my blue and raisiny feet. Can you appreciate the weight of a thick, top of the line wading sock that is completely saturated with water? Of course, you must factor in the number microorganisms (both flora and fauna) that somehow immediately made the incredible journey past my chest, down my legs, and into the wool/poly fibers of my socks.

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Fly Shop for the Suburbs: DuPage Fly Fishing Co.

I grew up in the western suburbs of Chicago. Fishing consisted of bait under a bobber for whatever happened to be nearby. I can’t remember a point in my childhood where I became aware of fly fishing. There really wasn’t any reason for me to. No fisheries capable of sustaining trout longer than the cooler months. No Trout in the Classroom. Nothing.

On a recent trip back to the Midwest, I began to wonder if I would have gotten involved in fly fishing if I’d never moved east. And if, then how? A friend who learned from a grandfather? A chance encounter with someone at a neighborhood pond? A morning out for breakfast, parked in a lot across from a fly shop?

If the latter was the case, then the only shop I would have encountered in the last few years would have been the DuPage Fly Fishing Company.

A mile or so off the major east-west interstate in Naperville, Illinois, DuPage Fly Fishing Company shares frontage in a strip mall with a tanning salon, a tutoring center, and a pancake house. If only there were as many fly shops in the greater Chicagoland area as there are pancake houses…

I stopped in just a few days over the two-year anniversary of the shop’s opening in March of 2014. Even though the heritage seems brief on paper, there is a much more established lineage for the store. Chicago Fly Fishing Outfitters, the premier industry outpost in the city, owns the Naperville store. Jeremy Spaccapaniccia, partner and manager of DuPage Fly Fishing Company, walked me through the shop’s short but notable history. “I’d been guiding in Colorado for a while, since I was out of college. I began trying to get it to happen since 2010. A few years later, when the industry and economy was on the upswing, it finally happened.”

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Tomorrow’s Conservationists: The TU Teen Summit

For conservation minded anglers, one of the highest priorities involves ensuring a sustainable resource. Clean water, protected habitats, and reproducing trout populations are realities that individuals and groups strive to see on their home waters. As vital as issues like these are, the fact of the matter is that there is another priority that is inseparable from any environmental project.

Preserving trout and their habitats for future generations doesn’t just mean ensuring that kids and grandkids have a place to fish, but ultimately handing off the responsibility. It isn’t enough to hand off an ecosystem and fishery that is in “good shape.” Part of the process involves communicating the ethics and information that conservation requires.

Trout Unlimited has been the leading voice in cold water conservation for over 50 years. For half of a century, men and women have devoted themselves to trout, salmon, and their respective ecosystems. But no matter how hard volunteers work or how much a donor gives, each individual life is limited by its span. That is why an organization like TU is prioritizing passing the torch along with the traditional conservation work.

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First Fish

This may very well be where I caught my first fish.

Growing up in the Chicago suburbs, I wasn’t necessarily born into a hotbed of angling. My family wasn’t a fly fishing family. However, like so many kids in middle America, my dad and grandpa did take me fishing.

And this might have been that first spot.

I have some vague memories. Sunfish. Kernels of corn from a can. Rooting through my dad’s tackle box.

That tackle box actually stands out more than the pond or the bluegill or the day. Giant, one ounce weights. Old, crusty soft plastic worms. A rusty fish scaler. But the organizational element of the compartmentalized trays with the curious arrangement of lures and tools was enthralling.

Perhaps that’s where the gear obsession began. Or the semi-diagnosable compulsion to have said gear systematized. Or fishing. But probably the former two.

In all seriousness, I do recall that day with a confident level of clarity. Again, we didn’t fish often. I can positively say that it was years in between fishing outings. That initial trip stood out though. As a kid, I would have probably said that “I go fishing.” I did catch a couple of fish, or, at the very least was present when a couple of fish were caught.

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Casting Across: Flying By

Today I’m traveling and working on some exciting content. Casting Across has been  up and running for nearly half of a year, and I have been loving every minute of the writing, conversations, and fishing that has taken place because of it.

Thank you for reading, whether you’re here for the first time or you’re a regular of the site. Regardless, I have two requests:

1.  Follow me! Not literally, of course. That would be awkward given my current travels… and in general.

I do put all new content on social media, as well as a select few other items that I think are worth my time and yours. So  please take a moment to follow/like/subscribe/etc.  on Twitter, Facebook,  Instagram, & Flipboard.

Not that everything on the site isn’t already fun,  but I have some great and exclusive things in store for those following Casting Across in the next few months.

2. Contact me!  Please reach out, via social media, this site’s contact page, or even my email (matthew[at]castingacross.com). I’d love to hear what you like, what could use improvement, or just a “hello!”

Thanks again for  being on the other end of what I’m doing, I truly appreciate it.

Tight lines, or happy reading until that happens.

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Fly Fishing Books

In the past few weeks, I’ve had at least three interactions regarding fly fishing books. Fly fishing books have been an important part of the sport for hundreds of years, taking different forms and meeting various needs. Even when so much information is available at the tap of a smart phone, tangible media is incredibly valuable. Whether it be a novel assisting in winter escapism or a  tattered, dog-eared, highlighted river guide on the back seat, books are a part of the angler’s life.

But talking about fishing “literature” can be a bit of an exercise in going down the rabbit hole. There are some major genres, all with subgenres and the potential for some intermingling. Here is my informal Dewey Decimal-ization of fly fishing books:

  • Guide (regional, site specific)
  • Technical (methods, locations, fly tying)
  • Literature (novels, biographies, history)

More often than not, a book can contain a little bit of each. Fly fishing is an activity tailor made for tacticians to wax poetical, and for tour guides to write with flowery prose. Some of the best books we have blur the lines of literary type. The anecdotes in guidebooks bring life to the maps and regulation lists. Inversely, a few tips and tricks in a person’s autobiographical work can help improve the reader’s time on the water.

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Confirming the Obvious: A Fly Fishing Experiment

The other day I thought to myself, “Why don’t you conduct a brief, informal survey of complete strangers in the mall?”

I know that thinking such things isn’t normal. And that carrying out plans like that is even less so. However, I had a few too many cups of coffee and I wasn’t going to let silly things like “shame” and “coming across as a total weirdo” stop me.

Here was the premise of my little social experiment: I love fly fishing. I love the fly fishing industry. I love looking at fly rods, flipping through pegboards of tying materials, and talking to employees at shops. Fly shops, as I’ve written about from time to time, are some of my favorite places in the world. But what do other people think about these little retail gems? Even if one is right under their nose; if they have to walk past it day in and day out, do they know what it is? Are muggles* aware of fly shops?

I had to pick up a few hooks and beads from a shop in the area. The location of this particular establishment made it the perfect environment for my study. It is in a mall. What’s more, it might be the most prominent name in the fly fishing industry. Hint: it rhymes with “Dorvis.”

After I bought my tying supplies, chatted with the friendly staff, and resisted the urge to buy things I didn’t need and most likely already have, I commenced my research. The plan was to walk up to random people, hold up my bag, and ask, “do you know what this store sells?” I wanted to hit all the demographics. Young and old, male and female, mall employees and shoppers, those who came across as outdoors-savvy and those who were sending out more of an indoorsy vibe.

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A Kill Wasted

I shot this deer earlier in the year and trailed it until after midnight, when my friend and I lost the blood trail. I was sick over losing it and had gone back out a few times to find the carcass. Friends of my friend found him a week ago. I should get his skull in the next week or so. I still hadn’t given up on it. I wish I was able to use his meat but I’m just glad to have some closure. I was using a doe bleat can and he came walking up behind me. I took a shot behind me and he jumped a fence and ran off like nothing happened.  When I got down to see if I even hit him I found a big pile of foamy pink blood: lung shot. I tracked him for almost half a mile before I finally lost the blood trail.

I was torn up over wasting him.

Alan sent that to me in a text a few nights ago. Even as a wild and mischievous teenager he was always incredibly compassionate towards animals. He was the one who got me into fly fishing, and I can remember listening to him talk about fish handling or best catch and release practices before it became as popular as it is now. I can definitely understand his mourning over this deer.

If you’ve ever been a similar situation, or killed an animal by accident, chances are you can empathize. It isn’t like the sitcom scene where the characters are weeping over roadkill. Certainly there is some sadness over the loss of life, but the death isn’t the point. In hunting, death is the goal. Death is often celebrated. But when the death comes inadvertently or in a way that isn’t ideal, the whole dynamic shifts.

There isn’t any sport in accidentally hitting an animal with your car, or coming across the carcass of something that got stuck in a fence. Poachers draw the ire of hunters for exploiting an unfair and illegal advantage, but also for pursuing animals when they are often vulnerable.

Today, many people might not understand the distinction being drawn. Killing is killing, right? Culturally, as we move away from the woods and towards the supermarket we lose sight of the holistic nature of life. Killing can be harvesting, killing can be hunting, but killing isn’t always just killing.

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Bright Futures: Color and Fishing Gear

There is a cliché image of what fly fishing ought to be. Perpetuated by retirement plan advertisements and stock image photos, it is the wicker-creel toting, floppy hat wearing, “traditional” fly fisher. Not incidentally, anglers of all demographics maintain this stereotype.

Stepping outside of these orthodox visuals is a risky proposition. Incremental steps in new directions or variations on common themes are often accepted in the name of “something fresh and different.” But branching out into innovative territory has the potential to offend the sensibilities of consumers.

Or, if the direction that fly reel design has been going for the past few years is any indication, garner the acclaim of an industry.

The reel may very well be the most stalwart component of the fly angler’s arsenal. For a long time, it has been referred to as “something to hold line.” While this may be true for many simply pursuing trout, the diversification of fly fishing opportunities has necessitated a significant change in what goes into making a reel. Stouter drags and higher capacities have to be balanced with reasonable weight. Porting reels and skeletonizing frames achieved this equilibrium. The results also created some very nontraditional designs. And anglers loved it.

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Footsteps and Fish Brains

According to the internet and common sense, fish have small brains. Eating food, making baby fish, and not being dead are really all they have/need to process. They don’t get hung up on existential hypotheticals, five year plans, or even if their new sling pack really meets all their needs. The cerebral existence of a fish is a simple one.

Yet there are some peculiar behaviors that fish demonstrate that will make you question their aptitude… or your own.

Up on the Battenkill in Vermont this past fall, I was targeting a very deep and fishy pool. I’d come across the spot the year before and saw a mammoth brown trout patrolling the greenish depths. As is the case in the vast majority of these situations, the currents and structure made getting the fly to the trout practically impossible while staying inconspicuous. As soon as my self-control waned and I got closer to the bank, the fish darted (well, swam off confidently) into the tangled mass of limbs at the bottom of the hole.

This time, I was prepared. Even in such a popular stream, I figured that the same fish – or a fish of similar stature would surely be in the pool. I entered the stream far below and waded up with heron-like stealth. The microscopic disturbances I was creating lulled water striders to sleep and drew praise from onlooking turtles. After what seemed like an hour, I was in position to cast. I had a large streamer on, and I started casting well beyond the head of the pool. Even with the amount of weight on the fly and leader, it seemed to take forever to drop down to where I could start my retrieve.

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