Open confession is good for the soul. – Scottish Proverb
Confess yourself to heaven, Repent what’s past, avoid what is to to come, And do not spread the compost on the weeds To make them ranker. – Hamlet III, iv
My name’s Mark, and I’m a brownliner.
There, I’ve said it.
Now all the nine regular readers of our blog know it.
As part of my confession, a bit of historical perspective is imperative: my fly fishing pedigree is far from noteworthy and decidedly blue(line).
First fly cast in an elementary school yard in Salt Lake City in 1984 at the ripe old age of 25. Thanks again John.
First fly rig – an Anglers’ Inn store brand rod, reel and line for around 40 bucks – that same year. Don’t snicker, that was an imposing gear grubstake for a penniless grad student in the day – and the gray noodle rod is still around.
Same year – first blueline native trout, all five inches of it, on a stretch of the Upper Provo River now forever buried beneath the waters of Utah’s Jordanelle Reservoir. Buried rivers are treasures forever lost, though the memory of one’s first trout lives on until dementia rules the day.
First native Yellowstone Cutt on a grotesquely self-tied EHC (roughly approximating in size and construct the pigeon smashed into your truck grill) early in the summer of 1985.
Catching that fish on that fly was a life changing event.
A never-ending ‘investment’ (no, she still doesn’t believe it) in fly gear, tying materials and rod building supplies / equipment began the next day.
Have spent the bulk of the subsequent 26 years (holy crap, where has the time gone?) fishing free stone waters around Montana, Wyoming, Idaho, Utah, and Colorado, with the occasional foray into Washington, Oregon, New Mexico and Southern Canada.
There have been many, many ‘no fish’ or ‘one fish’ days. Those days contrast well with a few (just a memorable few) one hundred plus fish days on some notable (long float one early fall day on the Missouri) and some not-so-
notable (an astounding morning on a forever to remain unnamed trib of the Snake just outside of Grand Teton – the ‘fish on every cast’ miracle) waters.
First forays into the salt started around 2000 and have intensified of late. Exciting, unpredictable and big fish in dreamy locales. Nifty.
Blueline, bay and blue water fly fishing made up the world as I knew it.
Until recently.
It’s been shared in more than one recent Chi Wulff post that business issues have necessitated a move to Texas for a few years – life will keep us down here for nine or ten months per year with shorter escapes to home base in Montana. So be it.
The food’s amazing, the business is cooking, shorts and sandals still dominate the wardrobe in late November and there are lot’s of fascinating people around (see Jake’s more apt description here).
Sounds pretty damned tolerable, ‘cept there’s no blue-blooded blueline salminoid water here in Texas.
Not anywhere. Texas’ winter trout stocking program duly noted, and yes I’ve heard over and over again how cold the friggin’ Canyon Dam effluent is. Not anywhere.
All that said, brownlining the local waters has been nothing short of an epiphany.
In fact, the new neighborhood may just turn out to be a brownlining paradise, river access issues aside.
Eager panfish and several hungry bass species abound. There’s actually lots of water around Austin. Bass whacking poppers really do look like toilets flushing. A smaller panfish than you’d imagine puts an enviable bend in the 4 weight. (Years of experience have honed the skills needed to make small fish look huge when on….)
Brownlining the neighborhood has been pure, untainted fun. Just thinking about it brings a smile.
I don’t know about your world, but having fun is critically underrated and far too often in short supply these days.
And dammit, brownlining is fun. Really fun.
My name’s Mark, and I’m a brownliner.
On Wednesday – Chi Wulff’s tip of the hat and thanks to some of the founding fathers (and mothers) of the brownliner movement that are near and dear to our hearts – Keith Barton, Jean-Paul Lipton, Pete McDonald and more….
