Chuck and…DUCK!

 Chuck and…DUCK! 

*Taken from “ The Fish of a Thousand Casts: Tales of Mischief and Mayhem in the Great Outdoors” By Steven Hutchins.  Order your copy today by following the link provided at the end of this excerpt! 

I’ve always had a distant fascination with the sport of fly-fishing.  Every month I receive numerous fly-fishing journals and magazines in the mail and admire the grace and eloquence with which the anglers pursue exotic game fish.  I’ve yet to experience the blissful state of perfection that’s displayed within these magazines, but I can appreciate the realistic effect of the, obviously, doctored photographs plastered throughout.  I’ll give them credit, I’m a big fan of special effects and the photographs I refer to are clearly top-notch.  Heck, to the untrained eye, they might seem real.  I mean, based on my experiences, I’ve yet to encounter the state of perfection so keenly photographed in those magazines.

Fly-Fishing.  The mention of this activity invokes visions of Hemingway conquering brook trout and rainbows on the Upper Peninsula’s famed Two Hearted River.  It makes you think about the film “A River Runs Through It” where a father and his sons bond and come to understand each other while sharing time on the water fly-fishing.  Countless authors have song the praises of fly-fishing and those who partake regard this activity with an almost religious sanctity, but if an author was to be commissioned to write of my fly-fishing exploits, the only one that could handle this task would be Stephen King.  Everything beautiful has a dark side and my contributions to the sport are no exception!

When I first started fishing for Salmon and Steelhead, I was one of the many “spawn tossers” who felt that spawn, or fresh Salmon eggs, was the only way to catch Steelhead.  As Steelhead fishing became more mainstream, it was determined that artificial flies were also effective.  Armed with this knowledge, some of us were able to dramatically improve our success rates and catch more fish.  There’s a price to be paid for such success and the price was paid in the cost of a fly.  By no strange coincidence, the rise in popularity of Steelhead flies also coincided with an increase in the cost of these precious offerings.  Bait shop owners called it “inflation”; the rest of us called it price gouging.  Either way, it was a sellers market and the laws of supply and demand dictated the purchase price of these flies.  Most of us were selling precious belongings to gather enough money to keep our fly boxes stocked, until Beef and I wandered through a fishing show one winter and stumbled upon a booth where a kindly, elderly gentleman was demonstrating the techniques of fly-tying.

We watched intently as he crafted gorgeous imitations of aquatic insects and it dawned on us that we could save a bundle if we made our own flies.  We watched, listened, and wrote notes on a napkin as the demonstrations went on.  The old man made it seem so easy.  Giddy with our newfound knowledge, we purchased all the necessary supplies and jumped headfirst into the world of fly-tying.

Somehow, the old man was able to put one over on the two individuals who watched so intently.  The man was definitely a master of illusion, as the ease with which he assembled such fine looking flies was lost on us!  In fact, our first “Flies” looked like something my cat throws up.  Speaking of cats, I discovered, via an attempt to reduce costs, that cat hair does not make a suitable substitute for other popular fly-tying materials like squirrel tail.  My mother put a moratorium on my experimentation when the family cat began appearing with mysterious bald spots!

But I digress.  The horrific appearance of our offerings led us to coin a new name for our creations.  Since they didn’t resemble an insect in any way, shape, or form, we simply referred to them as “ties”.  Ties were anything attached to a hook that consisted of fur and feathers.  Since we took the liberty to name our creations in such a manner, it would only make sense that the use of such items should be termed “Tie-Flying”.  The term “Tie-Flying” came out as a verbal mistake one day as I was conversing with a fellow angler on the Manistee River.  We were discussing different forms of relaxation and I said that I really find tie flying relaxing.  The man looked at me and questioned my oral blunder.  I kind of liked the term “Tie-Flying” and it’s stuck ever since.

“Tie-Flying“ is really just a drop in the bucket in the whole scheme of fly-fishing.  There are so many different ways to present artificials to the fish that authors could spend their entire lives researching them.  I’m waiting to see the book, The Complete Fly-Fishing Guide—No Exceptions on a bookstore shelf.  The thing would have to be the size of a dictionary and require the same down payment as a house.

Now that I’ve brought up the subject of dictionaries, allow me a few moments to point out some catchy fly-fishing terms that most people already know.  Easy terms like “Spey” “Double Hand Spey” and “Back Cast”.  Back Cast?  How many fishermen use the term “back cast” besides fly fishermen?  I’ve never in my life used that term when spin-fishing.  We primitive spin fishermen refer to a cast as…a cast.  The entire steps in executing a cast all fall under the generic term: cast.  But that’s what sets fly-fishing apart from other forms of fishing.  There’s a name for everything!  Kind of like golf…

The effectiveness of flies (or ties) for Salmon, in particular, has caused many people to do things that would border on obscene!  Take this for example…

Last fall, I was on the Big Manistee River enjoying a gorgeous September evening.  The river was almost void of human presence and I slipped into a nice run that held a bunch of feisty, fresh, Chinook.  The stars were out in force, there was very little breeze and the only sound in the river was the hiss of my lantern and the occasional splash of an angry Salmon.  It was an angler’s paradise to be sure!  After a couple hours of relative solitude, I noticed a pair of anglers making their way down the riverbank.  They stopped in my lantern light and sat their “stuff” on the ground.  Their “stuff” consisted of three fishing rods, a tackle box and two CASES of a cheap, frosty, adult beverage.  From the way they staggered down the riverbank, it was apparent that they’d already had their fill of the hops and barley!

“What’s goin’ on, buddy?” the first angler asked me.

“Oh…not a whole lot.” I said.  I wasn’t in the mood for conversation at that point.

The two tipsy fishermen slid into the river near me and began casting large lures that might’ve caught a shark…provided you were fishing in the ocean!  I continued casting my little peach yarn fly and hooked fish after fish.  The drunkards weren’t hooking anything and finally got a little fed up.

“What are you doin’ that we ain’t doin?” the second angler asked.  “What you usin’?”

I showed him my little peach yarn fly and explained that it was made to resemble a Salmon egg.

“Looks like a piece of white cotton!” the drunk stated.

“No…it’s peach yarn.” I explained again.  “It’s not cotton, and it’s not white.”

“But, I’ll bet white would work…wouldn’t it?” he asked.

“I suppose white would work,” I answered.

That answer was mistake # 1.  The intoxicated angler rubbed his chin for a moment and suddenly his eyes lit up in a manner indicating that he’d just come up with a brilliant idea.  He wandered back up to his tackle box and I continued fishing.  After a few minutes, I heard a strange ripping sound coming from the bank behind me.  I was too scared to turn around.  The ripping and tearing continued until the drunk staggered back out to the river.  He was grinning from ear to ear and proudly displayed the new rig dangling from the end of his rod.  It was a large treble hook, about the size of a fist, with a large chunk of white cloth impaled on one of the barbs.  Mistake # 2 followed.

“What the hell is that?” I asked, completely unprepared for the answer.

“You said white would work!” the angler proudly stated.  “The only white cotton I got is my underwear!  So I tore off a chunk and put it on this here hook!”

I was too dumb-founded to reply.  The drunk made a cast into the swirling current and with the giant treble hook, snagged a Salmon by the tail.  The fish was no doubt surprised by the foreign object in its rear end and leapt from the water, screaming, “What the hell is in my tail?  That looks like freakin’ underwear!”

“Hell Yeah! I got him…fish on!” the madman screamed.  The fish jumped out of the water again.  This time screaming vulgarities and insults at the drunkard.  Finally…the line broke and the rocket scientist looked at me…grinning.

“You’re right!” he said, “white does work!”

“Please don’t tell anyone…” I whispered, as he ripped up the rest of his underwear for bait…waistband included!

The form of fly-fishing that I practice is the “Chuck n’ Duck” method.  I’m a writer and my feeble attempts at humor force me to concoct situations and creative nicknames, but I can take no credit for the term: “Chuck n’ Duck”!  If there was ever a term that could appropriately describe my style of fly-fishing, this is it.  As it implies, you chuck your tie and then duck, so it won’t impale you in the back of the head.  The creator of this term obviously failed in the latter portion of the phrase, and hence, coined the name.  Most fly anglers in the mid-west practice this technique when fishing for Salmon and Steelhead.  The fishes spawning runs can be timed by a direct correlation in the increase of emergency rooms reporting people with hooks in the back of their head.  To find out if the runs are on, simply call the local hospital and ask how many people have had to have flies removed from their scalps.  If the number is on the rise, then it’s safe to assume that the fish are present in decent numbers!

“Chuck n’ Duck” is an acquired fishing technique and one that requires patience as well as agility.  Beef and I frequently use flies when we’re out on the water, but most of the time we still use them on our drift fishing rods.  The heresy of that hasn’t gone unnoticed by the purists in the fly-fishing community who encourage us to change techniques by shouting helpful hints like, “Get a freakin’ clue, would ya!”  Those fly guys…they’re a wild bunch all right!  Beef and I decided, one day, that we needed to expand our horizons and get a better grasp of “Chuckin’ and Duckin’”.

The best course of action was to book a trip with a guide who’s specialized in the art of “Chuck n’ Duck”.  I called an acquaintance of mine that guides on the Pere Marquette River.

“I’d love to help you,” the guide said, “but I’m all booked up.  Let me make a couple phone calls and see if I can hook you up with someone.”

My acquaintance made some calls and booked us with another guide who runs the flies only section of the river out of a drift boat.  We were to meet him at “The Blue Bear Lodge”.

The guide was waiting for us when Beef and I roared into the parking lot.  I suppose he wondered what he’d gotten himself into when my Explorer screeched to a halt with the radio blasting Judas Priest at full volume.  Beef and I got out arguing…as we’re prone to do when we’re stuck in a vehicle for any length of time.

“I think you’re way off base on this!” I said.  “Bloodsuckers is a much better song than Devil Digger!”

“How can you say that?” Beef shot back.  “Devil Digger has better rhythm for head banging!”

“Bloodsuckers!” I shouted.

“Devil Digger!” Beef shouted back.  We were about to take the argument to a physical level when the guide interrupted our debate (which was good for Beef’s sake although he’d argue otherwise).

“Please tell me you’re not my charter!” the guide pleaded.  He buried his face in his hands when we confirmed that we were.

The guide, a Mr. Frederick Palmreel, was well known in the fly-fishing community and an author of numerous articles and books.  His vast knowledge of the sport made him a bit arrogant and Beef and I would later refer to him as, Flingin’ Freddie.

Flingin’ Freddie launched his well-equipped drift boat into the rust colored water of the Pere Marquette and we were on our way.  The trip got off to a bit of a rough start.  Beef and I were taking a bathroom break as Flingin’ Freddie was launching the boat.  When we emerged from the public bathroom, Freddie was already drifting down river.  He was paddling to beat hell and looked panic stricken when he saw us running towards him.  Beef and I finally chased him down and got into the boat.  Flingin’ Freddie explained that the boat drifted into the current while he was rigging up the rods and, while his paddling may have appeared that he was trying to get away, he was merely trying to bide time until we could catch up to him.  Made sense to us…like we knew any better!  It wasn’t long before Beef and I picked up where we left off in our argument.  Flingin’ Freddie grew weary of our lengthy and intelligent conversation.

“Enough with the blood suckin’ devil music!” he screamed.  “Are you guys here to fish or argue?”

“Both!” Beef answered.  “We’re good.  We can do both at the same time!  This boat got a stereo?”

Flingin’ Freddie mumbled something that I couldn’t make out, but it sounded like some sort of violent insult directed at the acquaintance who’d booked this trip for us.

After drifting a short distance, Freddie ordered Beef to take control of the oars so he could finish rigging up the fly rods.  Beef wasn’t all that enthused about the task but took over anyway.  We passed two anglers who were attempting to wade around a large logjam.  Flingin’ Freddie gave them some helpful advice as we drifted by.

“Buy a boat you weenies!” Freddie shouted.  The two anglers, thankful for the helpful hint, expressed their appreciation by saluting our guide with a popular hand gesture that involves one middle finger.  We saw that gesture a lot as the day went on.  Flingin’ Freddie didn’t appear to be too popular with the other anglers on the river.  They must’ve known who he was because they kept calling him by name.  Albeit, they used a different adjective in front of it, but it still started with the letter “F”!  I was getting tired of drifting; we seemed to be passing up some good water.

“Uh…aren’t we passing a lot of good holding water?” I asked.

“Who is the guide here?” Flingin’ Freddie questioned.  I pointed at him.  “That’s right, and since I’m the guide, I will decide what’s good holding water and what’s not…got it?”

That’s the thing about guides.  Some of them act like you’ve never held a fishing pole in your life.  What Mr. Freddie didn’t realize was that I was an outdoor writer as well.  Ha! I knew a thing or two about Salmon fishing myself!

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