Tradition

tra·di·tion– noun trə-ˈdi-shən
: a way of thinking, behaving, or doing something that has been used by the people in a particular group, family, society, etc., for a long time

This is the common definition for 2 things near and dear to my heart- fly fishing and whisk(e)y. I like my Bourbon from Kentucky and my malts from the British Isles.  I like to catch trout and steelhead on my own flies tied late at night, with visions of a huge snout sipping in my dry or getting my two handed rod yanked out of my hand from that viscous pull on a swung fly.How can bourbon be from MI, Indiana or heaven for bid, Tennessee?  For me, it needs to be from 51% corn and aged for at least 2 years in in newly charred American oak barrels. It has to be made by old men with first names like Booker, Bill, Elmer or Jim, who have taught their children, grandchildren and possibly their great grandchildren the art and science of mashing, fermenting & running the pot still.  They also will have taught the next generation how to choose the “right”oak for their barrels, how long to age them and what it should taste like for their family style. You can’t teach passion, you either have it or you don’t, but enthusiasm is contagious, while tradition is passed down from those who are devoted unequivocally to their passions for generations.When it comes to fly fishing, far and away my two favorite techniques for fishing to salmonoids are traditional- dries on the surface and wets on the swing. I love stalking that elusive rising trout, casting to them from downstream, floating the fly right down the feeding lane, all the while keeping the fly line, leader and tippet out of their view. Waiting for their snout to break the surface and suck down my offering is full of suspense.  Sometimes the take is so dainty and stealth, you barely see their nose, just the rings of water after your fly disappears. Then, there are those other times where it’s like you’ve handed me a thick Ribeye medium rare,  after a long day of fishing and it’s devoured in a lustful binge of violence- the fly is gone and the fish is screaming downstream afterwards to its favorite “hidey”hole, much like me to the couch with a glass of bourbon in my hand.When it comes to fishing the swing, I do it 7/8ths of the year. If I’m trout fishing and there are no fish eating bugs on the surface, I’m going to cover as much water as I can swinging soft hackles and wets while walking downstream. Sometimes, if the trout are slashing at the bugs on the surface, I’ll take the same approach with my flies and swing a fly tied to “match” the hatch.

Now, Steelhead fishing, it’s all about the tug on a well swung fly, getting that aggressive fish to move to your offering.  It’s the wait, the eternal wait, watching that line swing in front of you, slowly working its way through a greasy seam on its way to the hang down. It’s about hoping that the tension in the line increases and I mutter some of my favorite words, “hmmm, that feels funny”. It’s about the jolt of electricity and all your synapses going ape shit as the rod jolts forward, the drag sings it’s fateful tune and you watch a bar of silver leap it’s way downstream.

If you see me fishing for steelhead with any other method, I’m with one  of my guide buddies, boat and we are “checking out new water”.  There have been more than one occasion that I have been introduced to a fellow fisherman and they look at me and say “Oh, you’re that dude who is always swinging flies at_ _ _ run”. It’s how I was taught to fish for our magnificent foe, Mr/Mrs steelhead, which is a tradition we borrowed from my/our ancestors across the pond for fishing Salmo Salár, aka the leaper.