Flexibility & Duct Tape

By Jack Campbell

As seen through the eyes of the "Wagon Master", Author Jack Campbell, explores the worldly travels of fishing through dusty and dirty sunglasses. His gang of four, the purported swashbucklers of fly-fishing, and their adventures from pristine Alaska to "ugly water" are humorously told in this fast paced and entertaining book.
Woven through the chapters that are full of tips, hints, and practical information is the story and tales of worldly travel to distant waters. The "Wagon Master" and his fishing companions learn lessons the hard way and pass this information to others that follow in a humorous narrative.
Many of the chapters are a general narrative in nature, some very detailed, and most a mix of both. The underlining theme of planning, completing and enjoying fly fishing travel is always present.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Campbell
• Release date: Jul 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452445830

Jack Campbell

Jack Campbell is the pseudonym for John G. Hemry, a retired Naval officer and graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy in Annapolis. As Jack Campbell, he writes The Lost Fleet series of military science fiction novels. He also wrote the Stark’s War and JAG in Space series under his real name.

Book preview

Flexibility &

Duct Tape

By Jack Campbell

Copyright 2005

Smashwords Edition 2011

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover Photo –Jack, George, Ryan, & Bruce

Rainy Camp, Florida River, Durango, CO August 2003

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1-THE WAGON MASTER

CHAPTER 2-IN THE BEGINNING

CHAPTER 3-FLEXIBILITY & DUCT TAPE

CHAPTER 4-BE PREPARED

CHAPTER 5-RODS AND REELS

CHAPTER 6-OUCH !!

CHAPTER 7-GUIDES

CHAPTER 8-NORTHERN LIGHTS

CHAPTER 9-KARLUK

CHAPTER 10-FAIRBANKS

CHAPTER 11-CASTING

CHAPTER 12-RUB-DUB-DUB

CHAPTER 13-WADERS N’ TUBES

CHAPTER 14-UGLY WATERS

CHAPTER 15-HOME WATERS

CHAPTER 16-TYING FLIES

CHAPTER 17-ASEA NORTH OF NORTH

CHAPTER 18-MAGIC

CHAPTER 19-THE INTERNET

CHAPTER 20-ONWARD AND UPWARD

EPILOGUE

tmp_56e337b563e9877f1c67a960efa612f4_tPRFvZ_html_m42f3f362.jpg

Chapter 1

THE WAGON MASTER

Our trips began modestly. In fact, I don’t really remember for sure which was the first trip I put together. It might have been to Eliguk Lake, in British Columbia, or might have been to Lake Fork Lodge, fishing Little Payette Lake near McCall, Idaho. I located the lodging and fishing facility either through the annual San Mateo fly-fishing exposition, a magazine, or maybe it was an article in the local newspaper. Since I had located the base camp, I took it upon myself to make all the other arrangements, air and land transportation, meal planning, and of course the quantity of beer required for such an adventure—a major task in our early years of high consumption.

I do remember reading an article by the travel editor of the local newspaper about a nice little tucked away log cabin that was available for rent in McCall, Idaho. The setting described as lovely and pristine and fishing nearby was mentioned in passing. I made a few telephone call inquiries, seemed like a good place to get started on our new adventures, so the booking was confirmed and the information passed out.

It would be a group of eight hardy lads, the Gang of Four (Bruce, Dan, Ryan and me) plus Bruce’s two sons, Bruce Jr. and Danny. George Phillips would drive over from Seattle, and Jim Pinkman would fly up from Long Beach, California. (Jim is an accomplished Marlin fisherman, but is glad to toss a fly with me when the occasion arises--bully for him, joining me chasing two- pound trout rather than 200-pound stripped Marlin in his mighty Backfin, the Ferrari of the seas)

I’ll always remember picking up Jim at the Boise airport. His first question was how far was the drive to McCall.

I guess about two hours, I responded.

Well in that case better stop at the nearest liquor store, sounds like a three six pack trip. Jim was always right on target back then.

Set back off a gravel Forest Service road across an expansive well maintained lawn was located the log home, Lake Fork Lodge. The three-bedroom log home was indeed on Lake Fork Creek, just a few dusty miles from Little Payette Lake. The creek was but thirty feet from the back door of the abode, within easy casting distance. A lovely secluded location about twenty minutes from McCall, but three days from civilization. Seems that the last eight miles of bumpy dirt Forest Service road kept the city folks of Boise from exploring beyond asphalt.

Our initial problem was storage of an adequate supply of various brands of cold adult beverages. The Lodge was nicely equipped, but feeding eight grown men required the majority of the space in the midsize propane-fueled refrigerator.

On the drive up to McCall from our resident area of Northern California, several of us had fished our way through campgrounds, rivers and streams. In the overnight camping supply department we had three of the hospital-style foam sleeping pads. Our first duty upon arrival at the Lodge was a trip back to the town of McCall to buy a fifty-five-gallon plastic garbage can and twenty pounds of crushed ice. Strapping the foam sleeping pads around the garbage can with duct tape and bungee cords created the most efficient of beer storage devices. During that week we only had to buy ice every three or four days, beer much more frequently. My first foray as Wagon Master taught me the importance of flexibility and duct tape.

tmp_56e337b563e9877f1c67a960efa612f4_tPRFvZ_html_6c64421.jpg

JIM AND THE LAKE FORK COOLER

The creek was closed for fishing until July 1; we had arrived June 28th. Outside the back door under the branch of an overhanging birch tree lay a beautiful 20+ inch male rainbow. Having completed its appointed duties upstream to preserve the species, it had not yet returned to the lake some two miles down river. The mayfly hatch and spinner fall was something to behold and lasted almost all day. Huge flights of mayflies, dancing in the sunlight above the creek by day, then in late afternoon covered the flowing waters with their depleted bodies. Under the protective branch of the birch tree the fish fed. And fed, and fed, and fed. We would sit out on the deck sipping one of those very cold adult beverages from the fifty-five-gallon garbage can and watch and wonder.

We named him; Fred, as every fine specimen remembered for life should be blessed with a proper name. We determined that Fred had a feeding area of about six-feet wide by ten-feet long in the shallow creek. He moved within this zone picking off mayflies by the hundreds, sometimes darting about within the area, sometimes just sitting motionless sipping. We spent many hours just watching. As opening day approached it became apparent that eight fly fishermen couldn’t cast to this wonderful specimen all at once. A plan needed to be devised, a new chore for the budding Wagon Master.

Each evening we played poker while consuming large quantities of liquid from the garbage can. Each night a tally was taken of each player’s winnings. It was decided that the order of approach to our neighborhood fish would be in the same order of the total nightly poker winnings. Each caster would get five opportunities to hook our fish. Jim won the right to be first followed by George and then Ryan. The roster was set; the evening moon shown brightly; the garbage can was near empty, and all went to bed with great anticipation.

The selection of fly pattern was, of course, left up to each individual, and you can be assured neither suggestions were made, nor advice offered, as to pattern, cast, mend, nor any other of the potential intricacies of the presentation. Especially by those lower down in the batting order. As Jim waded out into the chilly running water, all eyes were on his approach. Would the fish spook, stop feeding, go to ground, or proceed downstream to the lake to join his brethren and be lost to us forever?

Jim’s first three casts were well short of the mark and without apparent disrupting results to Fred. The next two were closer, but with considerable drag, the fly refused without a glance. Wrong fly, short cast, bad mending. NEXT.

George stepped into the limelight and proceeded to run his selected pattern within the feeding zone previously observed. On his third pass the fish sipped his offering and, with great sprit and verbosity, George proceeded to rip the fly out of the fish’s mouth with speed and strength equal to setting the hook in a marlin. All captured on video, it would be a moment in time George will never live down. NEXT.

After letting the fish rest and regain its composure, Ryan made his stealthy move. Showing up his elders as he does often, his first cast dropped the size 16 parachute Adams in the foam line the fish was working, and bingo. A slight raise of the rod, and the battle was on. Within a few minutes the spool fell off his reel into the creek, yet he continued to fight the game rainbow by hand and finesse bringing it to net in fine fashion.

Over the next four days we caught and released that fine 22-inch male six times. Each time Fred would lie low for about three or four hours, then resume his feeding habits. As a group, we got more pleasure from that one fish watching him, observing his feeding habits, and bringing him to net, than the balance of the fish caught and released that fine summer week in Idaho.

George had driven over from Seattle to join our group in his brand new Jeep Cherokee, pulling his newly acquired small wooden boat for the fishing duties on Little Lake Payette. Seems George saw this lovely handmade small wooden three-man rowboat somewhere along the back roads of the Olympic Peninsula. Never known for his conservative approach when it comes to spending money, he purchased it on the spot. Nice looking little item, smooth curved white-planked sides, highly varnished interior, two bench seats, very cute. Seemed like the perfect display item hanging on the wall of a New England fishing lodge along the wind swept dunes of Maine. It was quickly nicknamed The Good Ship Lollypop, by the group who were a little apprehensive as to its sea worthiness.

Rather than float tube the forty-minute kick out to productive fishing grounds, George, Jim and Danny decided to put the small vessel to its anointed duties the first day on Little Payette Lake. Now George is not a sea faring man, nor experienced with hand-made cute little wooden boats. Upon depositing the three bodies in the Lollypop and launching from shore, they soon discovered that small cute wooden boats apparently need to expand their freshly seamed wooden joints a bit to become watertight. About three hundred feet from shore they decided they couldn’t bail fast enough to keep up with the rising tide inside their tiny craft. A good interior soaking overnight increased the floatability but not the tipsiness of the vessel. I believe the cute little wooden boat now resides either in George’s backyard as a birdbath or Down east on the wall of that New England lodge.

tmp_56e337b563e9877f1c67a960efa612f4_tPRFvZ_html_m659cad0a.jpg

GEORGE, DANNY, RYAN & THE LOLLIPOP

Because of my business travel experience during these my working years; devising a method to get a few fishermen to a given location from various parts of the country was a piece of cake. The trip was great fun, good comrades in arms, many cases of beer, and what we thought was very skilled fly-fishing. I learned a lot in those early days, developing my Wagon Master skills about planning and feeding, and of course, fly-fishing.

How many times have you awoken at 4:30 a.m. thinking, I’d better sweat the mushrooms and par-cook the red potatoes? Wow! That’s a pretty scary situation when those types of deep-seated memory bytes start entering your sub-conscious sleep cycle, but alas, such is the price one pays for being a Wagon Master.

The Most Reverend, the High Gumba, He Who Does What Is Necessary, forsaking his own needs; He Who Leads the Uninformed, Uninitiated and the Lost– The Wagon Master. To all those who wish to explore the world of fly-fishing, meet every challenge, and enjoy the company of those who care to pursue those ends, the Wagon Master is the key. I have taken it upon myself to fill this lofty position at the sacrifice of my comfort for the good of the group. This might be overstating the case a bit, but to all of you that have Wagon Mastered a trip, those other participants need to understand the importance that should be placed on this position.

Those other travelers who have ventured far and wide on expeditions that you have organized can only bestow the title upon you. It is a position that must be earned over time. A weekend trip to local waters doth not make a Wagon Master. The skills must be honed in far away unusual places, amid cramped quarters, white gas stoves, and leaky air mattresses. The travels must be for extended lengths of time that take careful and imaginative planning.

The Gang of Four attempts to take an adventure every fall to unexplored locales, ever looking for new waters, high adventures, and fishing opportunities. It all started many years ago when I was re-introduced to fly-fishing by a twist of fate.

Ryan, my son and fledging fly fisherman at the time, was a junior or senior in high school. One of his close friend’s father stopped by our home one Saturday afternoon to pick up his son. Upon approaching the front door he was able to glance through the window of my office and there on the wall over Macintosh, my friendly computer, he noticed a fine mounted Steelhead of approximately 36 inches. Being one who had fished most of his life, he inquired as to its origin. That simple inquiry led to the story of its capture in 1966 while I was working in Northern California on a dam repair job, prior to entering Naval Flight School.

I must admit, as a man of conscious and truth, that it was caught on a local hillside grasshopper incorrectly mounted on an Eagle Claw bait hook. Today, being politically correct and more protective of our fisheries, I would not keep such a fine wild fish; however, I would consider having it for dinner if it was a hatchery fish.

That brief conversation we had that day over that wall-mounted specimen has led to a long and flourishing friendship. One of the few joining of kindred sprits I have achieved in my lifetime, where no request has ever been too much to ask, nor the response too much to give.

Bruce’s brother, Dan, was past president of the Santa Cruz Fly Fishers, and in the midst of converting him from spin to fly. He invited both of us to Pyramid Lake for club outing fly-casting for cutthroat trout.

These events in conjunction with Ryan’s early interest in the fly rod, and my trip with a close friend to Alaska for salmon fishing, was like the crossing paths of the stars and moons. Those things astrologers talk about, I think. Everything fell together at the same time, so within a year I was back in the game after a twenty-year hiatus.

The Gang of Four was thus formed; Bruce, Dan, Ryan and I, would become the swashbucklers of fly fishing, rods waving, cigars smoking, whiskey swilling, seeking any and all waters, anytime, anywhere, bring ’em on. This would be my fate in my fly-fishing life: to lead the Gang of Four from the lofty towers of bamboo, silk, and chalk streams to the faulty towers of K-Mart rods, cheap reels and leaky waders.

tmp_56e337b563e9877f1c67a960efa612f4_tPRFvZ_html_2cef9745.jpg

Chapter 2

IN THE BEGINNING

I am not one of those fortunate souls who at age three began