Rushing it.

The time of year has come when we all inevitably reflect on the year that is winding down. We let our minds embrace the good times, and we do our best to forget or forgive the bad. Most of us evaluate what we can do better, or how we can better ourselves.

I don’t personally believe in making “resolutions”, because we can change whatever we need to change, whenever we need to change it. We don’t need to wait until the period of time when every one makes grand statements that are sure to fall flat or quickly peter out.

With our early trout season just a couple weeks away, I have been looking back at this last season to see how to improve and make this next one even more fulfilling. My goal last season was to actively pursue trout in an effort to broaden and fine tune my fly fishing skill sets.

The season saw my  first trout on the fly to hand, a beautiful brown. In pretty quick succession, my personal best was bested, 4 times over. Brown trout became a feverous endeavor on my local water. Rainbow trout were a goal and Palomino, a dream. The season exceeded goals and made dreams come true. The season holds so many wonderful memories, that at first glance, it was hard to see how to improve it.

After the last late season deer hunt had come to a close, I had several hours in the truck, to reflect as I made the journey home. It became perfectly clear that what I needed to change in my fishing, was the same in my hunting, and in my daily life. I’m rushing it. I am rushing everything.

I’ve been greatly blessed with truly amazing memories and events this year, but I could clearly see the things that I missed out on because I was rushing it. I missed two of the biggest brown trout, I have ever seen, because I rushed it, making mistakes. I missed out on two more deer, because I rushed it, making mistakes. As a husband and a father, I can see the things that I have missed as well, from rushing it, making mistakes.

I need to embrace the time I have, in the moment I have it, and not rush it. I need to clean a few things off my plate to have more time to invest in my passions and loves. I need to slow down and be present. I need to slow my mind down and let it be completely in the moment or event.

As early trout nears, it has become clear; life is too short to rush it. Memories to sweet to miss in a hurry. Hobbies, work, and relationships all suffer if they aren’t watered with your time. Rushing it makes you miss the good things, and that is what I need to change now, not just for the next year, or next fishing season.

I encourage you all to join me. Invest your time to your best benefit and for the best benefit of those around you. Make the time to make a difference. Be the difference you want to see. Let your skills build, and your love grow. Slow down and invest yourself in the things that truly matter in your life. Be present and stop rushing it.

Keep your lines tight and your pride wet,

Jared Lane

 

Tennessee Deer Camp

On a Thursday night in November, I drove home in the dark. Car packed for a week of cold camping, and wet conditions. The following morning we would make the half a day (10 hour drive) to our property in Camden, Tennessee to hopefully down enough meat to cut our red meat grocery budget in half for the year.

After leaving at 4 AM, and spending a good portion of the day in the car, the first beer at an empty campsite was a godsend. We parked the truck in the state park and started unloading. As the sun started to set, I set up the tent. The temp dropped about 15 degrees bringing us down to the twenties, but we were prepared. Except for my father. Who forgot his sleeping bag somehow…? Nick was ready to sleep in his hammock, which seemed nuts, but I had a sleeping bag, a heated tent, and a pillow! So what did I care…

Saturday morning started off with frost and then followed up with pouring rain. For hours. We sat in our stands for the morning waiting for deer, and when nothing happened we slept in the truck. Around 2 pm we got back out to the stand. I sat waiting for deer until a loud crack in the tune of a .30-06 sounded off a hundred yards to my left. Nick had downed a doe. Which was good because he tarped down his hammock and sleeping bag in haste that morning meaning his “waterproof” sleeping arrangements were now a “swimming pool” with a wet sleeping bag. We joked quickly as I walked down the road to check it out, headed back to the stand and sat for a few more minutes before heading back to dress out the prize. That night was chilly, 20 degrees, and nobody had a sleeping bag… except me. The heater ran out of propane around 1:30 am so there was no warmth to spare in the tent.

The next morning didn’t start quickly. Everyone was cold, Nick ended up spending a portion of the early morning in his car, which is fully manual, right down to the window cranks and the locks. When he got out of the car, to get dressed, apparently he left the keys in the cup holder… the morning adventure started with a stick and a well-placed noose knot! I got the car unlocked and Nick headed home with his deer.  As the sun set on day two, I hadn’t seen so much as a squirrel, but again a shot rang out at the end of our property. I would soon learn that it was a big buck downed by my dad, a mile back into the woods. After the third shot from my dad, I knew it was time to go. I got down out of my stand and headed on the ¾ mile hike to his stand.

The buck had made a run into the thickest part of our property; thorn, dense trees, and a beaver dam, with no direct route to the truck. With howling coyotes all around, my dad and I made the trek into the woods as the sun started to sit low in the sky. It was hard to find him with all the downed timber and low light, but we located him and set to work. I dressed out the deer as my dad cut a log to shoulder carry the huge animal the more than a mile out.

Although the deer was big, the march out was pretty smooth, that is until the beaver pond. The only way across? A telephone pole sized log. A whole 60 seconds later (the longest minute of my life) we were across the 30 foot span. Dry. Now a mere 200 near vertical yards separated us from the truck.  And well deserved beer.

Long story short, we made it in the dark, and drank a glorious Busch Light on the truck tailgate. The next two days were uneventful for me. Numerous hours in every stand on the property, and nothing on the ground except for some wild turkey passing by and a squirrel who was concerned because He had left nuts on the floor of my stand. But not a single deer. However, I did get to spend a bunch of really quality time around a fire with my father and my younger brother over the course of the week. Something that I know doesn’t happen nearly enough. But we always reserve that time for deer, the outdoors, and good whiskey. We shared stories, shared a bunch of laughs, and a pretty solid hangover on a dreary Saturday morning!

With deer season now over, and the winter settling down around us, my attention is turning to fly tying, and home brewing, but the memory of the season will remain fresh in all our minds until next year. I came home empty handed, but my spirit was renewed. All in all, well worth the time in the trees!

No, it’s not about fishing, but I hope you enjoyed the read!

Keep your lines tight, and your pride wet!

-Rich Hacker

Musky Fishing Is Stupid

The elation is insurmountable. The adrenaline, borderline sickening. The hunt and the stalk are exhilarating. The boredom is mind numbing. The physical fatigue is brutal. The same thing over and over, hopes and senses peaked, reality mentally abuses you. You are a musky fisherman.

The first time you see the serial killer launch out of the weeds to assassinate your fly, whether you catch it or not, you are hooked. The sickness grows inside of you. It eats your better judgement, and massacres your will. Once you see the vision of a musky on the hunt, chasing your fly, you will do anything, at any expense, to get that feeling again. A hero shot, or even just eyes on the biggest fish of your life, are enough to make you justify owning every tennis elbow brace that all of the big box stores in your town stock on their shelves. All you can hope is that it matches your carpal tunnel brace. You quietly apply healing salves, and try not to complain at all to your wife about how deeply it hurts, and that you cannot physically pick up your child right now, because you know she wouldn’t let you go do this to yourself again tomorrow. You die inside with the insatiable thirst for another musky, all in.

If you have ever fished for musky, you know. If you have handled a monster, its not enough. The sickness eats you and makes you commit travesties to your body that you would not otherwise commit. When your body has told you ten times over to quit, there is still something pushing through the pain, driving you for more. The follow, the boil, the blow up. No other kind of fish has contingent counts. This isn’t a hand grenade, but some how we still justify, almost, being close enough.

Your pinky cramps so hard, you wonder if it will ever release out of the base of your thumb. Your cast falls apart to the point where you wonder if you have ever held a fly rod before. You literally do not have anything left after your carpal tunnel and tennis elbow and separated shoulder to push your forward cast. You haven’t eaten. You are dehydrated. Your doctor hates you. You haven’t moved a fish, so…just…a few…more…hours. Musky fishing is stupid.

The slashing eat. The boiling water. The bent over rod pounding in your hand as line rips through each layer of skin on your fingers. The screaming drag matches your racing heart rate. The power of the fight. The crippling adrenaline relights the fire. You are a musky fisherman. Nothing else matters.

I chose not to post any pictures, because I will not be your gate way drug. If you’ve been down the road, your skin is itching and your mind is already racing. Musky fishing is stupid, and there isn’t much better. I’m going to apply some Amish healing balm to my torn pectorals and suffering triceps, so I can relax and enjoy chasing rainbow trout and common carp this weekend!

Keep your lines tight and your pride wet!

Jared Lane

Old Timers

There were never any questions asked. We accepted each other because we both fished. We shared a passion for the outdoors. We shared a heart for the water. We liked the same guns. Neither one of us were afraid of bears. We were fast friends.

Harold was in his 70s. I was in my early 20s. He was the kindest man. I was a brazen party animal. We would talk for hours about life. The many he had led, and the ones I dreamed of. We talked of love and loss, and shot red squirrels. We would take turns flushing grouse for each other. He drank coffee on the porch, while I chopped his fire wood. We would study spray patterns from our shotguns, to help us shoot more efficiently. We would pump rounds through our .22s until we were both shooting the same hole. We would drink bad reheated coffee together as we hand fed day old donuts and tortillas to the wild black bears he welcomed on his porch as readily as he did me.

We fished. Our days on the water were long, even though I could see how hard each hour in the boat was for his body to get through. He’d sit back and tell me stories and smile as I pulled another one in. The relationship shifted from him taking me fishing, to me taking him, as he became less able. He taught me lessons about life, just by being himself, and never by preaching to me. His soul was beautiful and losing him was devastating.

I still fish out of his boat, drink bad coffee, and shoot red squirrels. I imagine the bears I encounter on the river to be old friends of ours. I will never own a shotgun that isn’t a single shot. Harold said if you need more than one shot, you shouldn’t be shooting. When I am in the neighborhood, I stop and clean up his head stone, leave him a fly, and catch him up to speed. Then I cry. I cry hard and deep. Tears of gratitude for everything he gave me, everything he taught me, and everything we shared. Tears of being grateful just to have known him, let alone be friends.

 

The cold lonely feeling of hoisting his casket to my shoulder has faded with time, and has been replaced by a warm loving feeling as I row his boat from spot to spot. In a line up, I probably wouldn’t have picked Harold, and sure as the day is long, he wouldn’t have picked me, but we were fast friends, as fate saw fit. He left a special spot in my heart for the old timers. A respect for what was, and a hope for everything that can be.

The universe has brought another old timer into my life, and I am ever grateful. The bond with an old timer is special, even if you never would have picked each other. The water brings you together, and the stories build the bond. Irreplaceable relationships are formed when you share your passion. If you haven’t had an old timer in your life, get it together before its too late. You might be making some of their best memories too.

Keep your lines tight and your pride wet,

Jared Lane