Time

Ben Franklin said, "Lost time is never found again."

Driving home from work one night last week I was at a stop sign and noticed the leaves on a tree next to me were starting to change color. I sat there for a moment realizing that another season is about to pass and once again I have not spent the time on the water I planned to when the season started four months ago. There are several reasons, and they’re all justifiable, explained simply in the words my father once said to me, that “…being a man means doing what you have to do instead of what you want to do…” The time is coming, and it’s not that far off, when what I “have to do” and what I “want to do” are going to trade places. In the meantime I’ll keep pulling a little more at the leash as I plan for change and find a way to spend my days on the backwater flats.

Since I started Backwater Flats and have written a bit about were I’ve gone, what I’ve seen and people I’ve met, I’ve been asked a few times where exactly these backwater flats are, how many fish have I caught and what were they caught on. My best answer is they are wherever you want them to be and any fish caught are just a bonus. The idea is not about a specific location or the results of throwing feathers and fur at the water. It’s about getting to that place and the time spent there.

After the stop sign incident I’ve ventured out three times to spend a few hours in the backwater unplugged and unleashed from the world. Each outing was in a different place, a different tide and for different purposes. The first two were purely to escape the job, the phone and the vice for a couple of hours. Last night I headed to those flats on the edge of the marsh where this blogging idea was born two years ago. The purpose wasn’t about fishing, it was about getting there. With the sun dropping and the tide almost out I moved quickly and saved the few minutes of fishing for the other side.

Getting there is best done midway through the drop. The obstacles of finger creeks and mosquito ditches deeper than I am tall create a small window of opportunity. It takes several trips to get the timing and the route down. It’s a slog hop-scotching through the marsh and along the river bank through the mud. It’s not a straight walk in, there is a lot of climbing, sliding, jumping and stumbling involved. This is where my collection of $100 waders is invaluable and the performance clothing gets left behind in favor of work wear. River and marsh mud does not wash out of anything.

Along the way are deep pools in some of the finger creeks that on occasion will hold a trapped fish or two. It’s pretty cool to walk back into some of these places and find a fish trapped in a relatively small piece of water and spend some time trying to get them to hit a fly. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t.

Eventually the marsh opens up to the flats. It takes planning and timing to get there when there is still good water but every once in a while it works out. I have in the past totally committed in expedition style to spending a full tide out there. There are places to ride the tide out and they are fish-able but it gets real small, real quick.

The memory of the fish may be lost but the effort will not.

It all comes down to time.

Don't lose it.


North River, MA
31 August 2015

Wayfarer

The trail leads into the marsh from the edge of the parking lot transitioning first from pavement to hard packed gravel and then to well worn dirt. A short distance from the asphalt a tunnel of sorts is created around the path by stands of old growth trees, scrub brush and vines. As with any path, there are two certainties: something lies behind and something lies ahead. What happens in between is up to the wayfarer.

Light begins to change as day eases into night. The dim coolness of the tunnel is periodically broken by the last bits of the evening sun and its heat weaving through the breeze stirred canopy overhead. The sounds, smells and feel conjure memories of sunsets on dirt roads, the old International Harvester with half a tank of gas, the Shakespeare with a Zebco on it thrown in the back with a box of Mepps Spinners and half a dozen streams with brookies in them to stop at…and “Jack and Diane” on the radio. The summer of ’83, the last time that all things seemed possible.

Off the beaten path and through the grass is the edge of the creek. Along its length as it reaches out to the river proper are a random series of swallows and ditches. The water floods the sod banks and begins to fill the space between the stalks of cord grass and salt hay, transforming the marsh into a different place that exists for a short time every twelve hours and twenty four minutes.

In the distance is the hum of engines and tires on the pavement departed just minutes ago. The sounds of the daily journey between what is and what can be, between making a living and making a life. Looking down into the water a reflection stares back, eyes lock,  each face familiar to the other. Both mouth the words to an old Tom Petty song:

“Sometime later, getting the words wrong

Wasting the meaning, and losing the rhyme…”

Each silently asks the other, “Do you remember?”

The two part ways as life begins to flow with the water from the creek and its fingers over the bank and into the grass. A depression on the marsh floor next to a wide ditch is now filled with water, its glassy surface intermittently disturbed by dancing shrimp and baitfish. Casts are made from a somewhat raised area off to the side in the hopes a striped bass or a shad ventures out of the ditch into this temporary buffet line. In time a wake appears and on the second cast to it the fly is hit almost immediately.

During the release of the shad, in the light of the headlamp, the reflection reappears and asks again, “Do you remember?”

Both watch the fish swim away.

The water’s edge is the border, the difference between one who does and one who does not. Standing here right now, caught in the middle, each step deeper into the marsh another step away from one and closer to the other.


North River, MA
Summer of '15

Goombata

Joe Cordeiro. I first met him 16 or 17 years ago. I was a newcomer to the world of fly fishing and was stumbling around the aisles of The Fly Fishing Show in Marlborough, MA captivated by the rows of fly rods and shiny reels and mesmerized by the images of anglers in far-away places holding fish I had never seen before. With little knowledge of basically anything to do with fly fishing I kept to myself and moved quickly to avoid any conversation that might reveal my ignorance. I loaded my backpack with catalogs, magazines, brochures, pamphlets, business cards…the beginning of my library to educate myself about this new addiction.

Eventually I made my way to the rows of fly tiers. This was before I had any thought of tying flies, much less becoming a commercial tier. I walked down an aisle and watched trout flies being tied, deceivers and bonefish flies being twisted and then I saw this guy with a dozen people crowded around his table whipping around all kinds of crazy looking feathers and tying them on a hook. I had never seen anything like these flies. I must have stood there for thirty minutes watching him, taking a step closer to the table every time someone moved along. Eventually I was standing right there in front of him. As he finished a fly he looked up at me and started asking me where I fished and what I fished for. It turned out he was also from the south shore and he talked to me about places to try, when to go and what to throw for flies. I asked him questions about the flies he was tying, materials and where to take tying lessons. At the end of this first meeting he asked me my name and shook my hand. I learned later that Joe is known as "the guy" when it comes to the flat wing style of fly tying. The next year at the show I walked up to his table and the first thing he said was, “Hey Mike, how was your season?”  

We’ve been friends ever since.

Over the years as I became more involved with fly tying we would run into each other at shows and events and talk about flies, fishing and the politics of both.  At the end of each meeting we talked about life and our kids and for the last decade we’ve talked about fishing together but have never actually done it. We had the same conversation at the last show we did this spring but this year it was more serious because he recently moved across the river from where I live. We agreed there were no excuses.

So today I had the opportunity and privilege of fishing with one of my fly tying mentors, a true master of the flat-wing style and one of my great friends. I’ve been fishing for the last couple of weeks and have been on the stripes a fair amount. The hot color has been orange. We agreed to meet at a spot and fish the outgoing tide over some mud. When I parked the Jeep the thermometer said forty-seven degrees and the wind was howling. I had hoped for no wind so there would be the chance to sight-cast as the fish moved over the flat. That clearly was not going to happen so we made a plan and stepped into the water. It was brisk to say the least. And with gusts up to about twenty knots in our face casting was a challenge. I was starting to feel that black and white varmint creeping up on us. I was getting nervous because I was fishing with one of my idols, someone I have learned so much from about building flies and fishing them. And I had told him that we would find fish and that they would eat orange flies.

I moved us with the tide and we threw our orange flies as best we could into the wind and we waited for the fish. About the time my body started shivering to maintain ninety-eight degrees they showed up. 

I tapped the first one.

Joe found some love on a sweet long cast that the wind shortened to thirty feet.

For just shy of an hour we had fish. 

And they ate orange flies.

The fish moved on, the wind picked up and we walked back to the vehicles. As is the custom, we spent the last twenty minutes talking about restaurants, jobs and kids.

Until next time, old friend.

North River, MA

23 May 2015

For My Grandfather

Teaching us to tell time by the ring of the church bells

Milk shakes at Minnie’s and ice cream cups at the VFW

Road Runner, Wild Kingdom, Wheel of Fortune and peanuts in the glass dish

The smell of K-1 in the shed and tires in the warehouse

Rainy afternoons on the porch and the Red Sox on the radio

Weekends at Camp and red hot dogs over wood fires

Hours and hours teaching me to tie my own shoes

Telling me swimming lessons would help later in life

Teaching us to row the tin boat and paddle a canoe

Those rocket sleds you gave Georgia and I at Christmas and the rides we had

Showing me where the perch were and how to handle a pickerel

Sharing Dairy-Joy with Pepper in the backseat of that old green car

Discussing who was most underrated; Remy or Burleson

Being there for concerts, races and collecting coins

Paddling the canoe beside me on training swims and saying

“Aren’t you glad you took those swimming lessons now?”

High school and college graduations saying you knew I could do it

Asking to see my badge and gun and putting on my shoulder rig

All quickly done when my mother left the room

Listening to your stories of service at sea and what war really means

Your silent worrying while I was on the street and in the shadows

Late night calls to Mom to make sure I got off the mountain or the water

Explaining to you why baitfish flies don’t look like “flies”

Your words after my first article was published

Watching you hold my daughter for the very first time

Seeing you with her when we visit

Listening to you tell her things you told me

And this past Christmas with the whole family there

Making jokes like you always have and the joy in your eyes

Of having your life in one room, all together…one last time

Much of my life has been spent far away

And though I’ve been gone in my own way I’m still there

For what you gave made me strong and guides me well 

Your words and wisdom from where I began

Shall not be forgotten as I continue on toward the sun

Rest now Grampa and watch from above until that day

I’ll see you on the other side

13 April 2015
North River, MA

Blind Casts

I’ve come to these places dozens of times since the last fish headed south in November.

On clear bright days to feel the sun reflect off the water.

In advance of storms to breath in that haunting silence that occurs just before the first snowflake falls. 

In the bitter cold when nothing moves.

In the midst of blizzards to listen to the rage and fury of wind and water and be reminded that as much as we try to push her back, Mother Nature will always be more powerful.     

To watch the sun rise and paint the fresh canvas that She always leaves behind.

I come to these places because even in the off season they are part of my day, of most of what I do, of nearly every thought. Thoughts of sweet long casts to the skinny water in the back corner, schoolies racing out from behind pilings to crush a topwater, happy fish sipping on a shrimp hatch at the edge of the grass…the possibility of the next cast.

Winter has passed. Spring begins.

Bring it.

North River, MA

30 March 2015