Brenda Layman's Blog

Posted by Brenda Layman

One thing about fishing is that, for those who love it, it never loses its appeal.

I had a new pair of neoprene waders to break in last weekend, so Mark and I took off for the Mohican River on a cold November Sunday to see if we could catch some Ohio trout. The waders were great for keeping me warm in the frigid water, and I got used to the bulky boot feet pretty quickly. It took me a little longer to get used to casting a tiny trout fly on a 4 weight, as I had spent most of the summer with my 5 weight in hand, throwing streamers to rock bass and smallmouth. After several attempts, I got the hang of it enough to put the fly where I wanted it and get a good mend and drift most of the time.

A couple of guys were fishing downstream a little way, and they were nice enough to give us a bit of advice about the area. Fly fishermen are generally nice folks, in my experience, as long as you respect their space and don't get too nosy about what fly they're using.

We moved upstream a bit. The day was beautiful. It wasn't the kind of day that usually means good fishing, and there were no visible rises on the river, but it was the kind of day that people enjoy. The sun was shining, and there was a light breeze, gentle enough not to interfere much with casting. Geese passed overhead, and squirrels rustled among the dead leaves, industriously gathering food and preparing cozy nests for winter's approaching chill. It was one of those days when you don't much care whether or not you actually catch fish, because you are outdoors, in the river, with a rod in your hand, and all is right with the world. Catching fish would top it off splendidly, but you are not greedy. You're content to enjoy the day as the gift that it is. You become poetic or philosophical, depending upon which kind of fisherman you happen to be. I have decided that all of us are one of these types or the other.

I cast, mended, and watched my fly drift along. Then, there it was -- that flash that means a trout has taken the fly, the flash we watch for, poised to wait just the fraction of a second long enough, then set the hook. Fish on! No matter how many times this happens, it is always miraculous. The joy of floating a bit of fur and feathers atop a cold river current, then connecting with a wild creature that lives its life in that river, pulling it gently into the light and marvelling over its beauty before releasing it, never gets old. The thrill is there, whether the trout are rising like crazy, taking every other cast, or whether hours of fishing bring only one fish to the hand The little brown trout lay shining in the net. I removed the tiny fly from its jaw and watched as the lovely creature swam away. On top of everything, a fish. I was supremely happy. That's the thing about fishing.

Posted by Brenda Layman

Posted by Brenda Layman

1. Yes, it’s loaded.
2. The water probably is as deep as it looks.
3. The current probably is as strong as it looks.
4. No, you won’t remember where the truck is parked if you don’t mark a waypoint.
5. The Emergency Rescue People are not bored and in need of something to do.
6. Yes, you should pay attention to that crack in the ice.
7. No, you won’t be able to survive on squirrels you catch in a snare and fish you spear with a stick.
8. If you are out of breath after hiking from the bratwurst counter to the beer aisle, you should not plan to hike a couple of miles into the woods while carrying a shotgun and a tree stand.
9. No, it is not a good idea to take your purchase from the beer aisle along to enjoy in those idle moments when no game is appearing or the fish aren’t biting.
10. Ditto the purchase from the State Liquor Store.
11. Yes, it’s sharp.
12. Take a sweater.

Posted by Brenda Layman

Last week I published an article on urban hunting. A reader suggested that I check with Gahanna, Ohio, because he had heard that Gahanna had begun such a program. I was surprised to learn that Gahanna has permitted urban hunting for the past 18 years! Police Chief Dennis Murphy could hardly say enough good things about Gahanna's experiences with urban hunters. In 18 years, they have had no accidents or incidents that have drawn criticism from area residents. Over 200 hunters are participating in the program, which allows hunting both on designated public land and selected private property. Last year, hunters killed 69 deer, seven more than were killed by cars withing the city limits.

Chief Murphy likes urban hunting for other reasons, too. The hunters, he explains, provide more than 200 additional sets of eyes and ears that are out and about in the community. If they see anything suspicious, they are encouraged to call the police and make a report. With 200 hunters on the job, it's more difficult for criminals to be sure that they won't be observed, even in remote parts of the city.

Yet more good comes from Gahanna's urban hunting activity. Much of the meat is processed and donated to food banks, funded by a grant from the Department of Natural Resources. With this program, everybody wins. Hunters get places to hunt. The city gets the benefit of a controlled deer population. The police force gets hundreds of additional citizens looking out for the community. Hungry people are provided with delicious venison.

Chief Murphy says that Gahanna officials have shared what they have learned with neighboring cities, and they are eager to share with any municipalities that are interested in starting their own urban hunting programs. "We've got all the bugs worked out, and we will share everything we know," says Murphy.

For more information, contact Police Chief Dennis Murphy at:

Gahanna Police Division

460 Rocky Fork Blvd.

Gahanna, OH 43230

(614) 342-4240

dennis.murphy@gahanna.gov

Posted by Brenda Layman

A local farmer told me the following tale. His buddy works at a deer tagging station. On two separate occasions, people have arrived at the station with animals they thought were deer. The first gentleman had shot a goat, and the second one had bagged someone's calf. He swears he is not making this up, and I am rather inclined to believe him. These seem like outrageous cases of mistaken identity, but to anyone who spends time with urban or suburban children, it makes sense. From a nation of people who were well acquainted with earth, woods, and water, we are now a country of television watchers. Show the average preschooler who does not live on a farm a picture of a goat, and he will identify it as a dog. He won't know what a saddle is for, and he will be unable to tell you that a male chicken is a rooster and a female pig is a sow. He does not know that hamburgers are made from the meat of cattle, or that chicken nuggets were once part of a living chicken. He does not know that a bean is a seed. He believes fervently that almost any type of flying insect will bite him or sting him, and that much of what lives outdoors is poison. He has probably never had dirt under his fingernails or skinned his knee.

Fast forward twenty years. The young man is now a adult, and he yearns to reconnect with the Great Outdoors. Inspired by hunting programs on television, he buys a shotgun and some camo gear and heads for the woods. He makes quite a ruckus as he hikes along, alerting any wild animals that might be in the area to his presence, so his chances of shooting a deer are pretty slim. At last, he spies a large, brown, four-legged creature nibbling weeds along the margin where a farmer's field meets the woods. He takes aim, fires, and watches his game drop to the ground. He has rarely seen a dead animal, and he is nearly overwhelmed by the knowledge that he has killed something. It lies on the ground, and the reality of its fur and flesh and bones and blood surprises him. He dutifully loads it onto his vehicle and drives to the tagging station, only to find that the creature he shot is not, in fact, a deer. It makes sense.

One great thing that any outdoors enthusiast can do is to introduce children to wildlife and wild places. This is a heritage that is disappearing from many segments of our society. To lose touch with the other living things on the earth with us is to lose a part of ourselves. Living in a sanitary world where food comes wrapped in plastic and resembles no living thing, we can hardly protect the natural treasures that have been entrusted to our care. Who can care deeply about mountain streams, never having waded in one? What do the fish and the frogs matter to us if we have never felt them strain against a line or listened to them calling to each other in the night? How can we preserve habitat for game birds and deer when we are hardly aware of their existence, let alone their natures and their needs?

We who love the outdoors have a solemn duty, not only to care for the natural world, but to teach those who will follow how to love it. If you have taken a child of your own, or someone elses, out to fish, or hunt, or hike, or to grow things in the earth, I commend you. Bless you for caring about the future of our children and our natural heritage.

Posted by Brenda Layman

Not least among the fascinations of fishing is tackle. From the first long-ago fisherman who attached a bit of bait to a line and dangled it into the water in hopes of catching a meal, to today's top-of-the line rods, reels, and lures, the innovative nature of the angler shines through. Forget building better mousetraps. We keep building better fishing tackle.

The new stuff is exciting, but the history of fishing tackle is particularly interesting. A reader recently wrote to ask for help in identifying an old rod and reel. No one he knows has ever seen tackle quite like it. For readers who are trying to identify old tackle, the two best sources I've found are the internet and The National Fishing Lure Collector's Club.

Searching terms like, "old fishing rods," "vintage fishing tackle," and "antique fishing tackle" will yield a good number of information sites that can help the novice collector get an idea about the age and origin of the piece. Digging deeper on more specific terms that are uncovered during the search can help narrow it down even more.

Social networking sites like Facebook and Twitter are surprisingly good places to connect with other fishermen and collectors. Posting a photo of the mystery tackle, then asking other anglers and collectors to share the photo, will get that unidentified rod and reel before hundreds, even thousands, of people, and one of them just might recognize it.

Novice collectors can get in touch with the real antique tackle fanatics by contacting the N.F.L.C.C. . They publish a quarterly magazine, The N.F.L.C.C. Gazette, where members can submit photos of unidentified tackle and ask for help in identifying it. Bryan Parker is N.F.L.C.C. President, and the the organization's address is:

NFLCC

P.O. Box 509

Mansfield, TX 76063

I have a few old lures and flies inherited from my dad, and I display them along with my collection of fishing books. Last year I found an early 20th century steel rod and antique reel, still filled with old linen fishing line, at a flea market. The owners were asking $25 for it, which I readily paid, knowing that the pair were worth at least $60 to a collector. However, I don't intend to sell them. They look too good leaning against my fishing bookcase with one of my dad's old wooden lures dangling from the line.

Posted by Brenda Layman

"And if the angler catches the fish with difficulty, then there is no man merrier than he is in his spirits." - Treatise of Fishing with an Angle, circa 1410

"But, why can't you shoot it on the ground?" This question came from one of my non-hunting, non-fishing writer friends.

"Because," I insisted, "it wouldn't be sporting. You can only shoot the bird in the air. You know, to shoot them on the ground would be like shooting ducks in a barrel. Not sporting." To my friend's way of thinking, a bird full of pellets was a bird full of pellets. As, I suppose, she would think a trout in a net is a trout in a net, and so on. But this just isn't so. Upland bird hunting isn't just about procuring a bird to eat. That can be done at the local supermarket, at far less trouble and expense. Indeed, I can order a fine meal of restaurant trout, sparing me the effort of driving to the stream, putting on my waders, and spending hours trying to fool a fish into biting a bit of fur and feathers on a hook, when I'm going to release the fish anyway. No, the difficulty is important, because therein lies the sport. Way back in the fifteenth century, and probably even before that, sportsmen recognized that it is important to hunt and fish by certain rules. Among these are shooting birds on the wing and catching fish "with difficulty."

On a recent evening, Mark and I had spent a few hours casting for smallmouth, with nothing to show for our trouble but a couple of puny bluegill. A strapping fellow showed up about twenty minutes before dark, and waded out into the river. Although we had just fished over that very area, he immediately began catching fish. After pulling in six fish in about eight casts, he started for shore with his loaded stringer. I hurried after him, determined to find out his secret. He wasn't real happy to see me, but I smiled sweetly and wheedled it out of him. He had taken four bass and two little catfish on a pheremone-impregnated plastic bait. He was about a head taller and a hundred pounds heavier than I am, so I wasn't inclined to criticize, but neither was I envious. He had caught his fish, but I had had my sport.

Shooting ducks in a barrel will never compare to shooting grouse on the wing, and catching fish on a pheremone-impregnated plastic bait will never satisfy me like taking a fish on a hand-made fly. Some things just need to be done "with difficulty."

Posted by Brenda Layman

My husband, Mark, is heading off to the woods with his buddies for a week and a half of grouse hunting. I like to kid him about it. "It takes eight men and four dogs a week and a half to shoot six grouse," I say. He just laughs and gets that far-away look. If you know any hunters, you know the one. They're seeing early mornings with frost on the ground and the sun coming up through poplars that are just starting to lose their leaves. They're thinking of dogs getting "birdy" when they catch the scent of game, of the adreneline rush that comes when grouse explode from cover and take off, of the shotgun at the shoulder and the bird that falls, of the dog that brings it to hand. They're remembering the cameraderie of the hunt and of the cabin, of the rituals that must always be followed, and the stories that must be repeated each year, with more added as time goes by. They're planning the card games and the whiskey and the beers, the steaks and the wild game dinners. They're also remembering companions that are no longer a part of the hunt, good bird dogs laid to rest in the woods they loved to roam, and good friends who will hunt no more. In their minds, they aren't sitting in offices, or sleeping in watertight houses with central heat, where one can be untouched by and unaware of the outdoors. They're in the field, where their senses are alert and they can challenge themselves in the hunt. They're in the camp or the hunting cabin, where warmth comes from fire and a little rain or snow might blow in around the edges and they might hear coyotes in the night and be reminded that wild places still exist. Yep, Mark is going on a grouse hunt, and in spite of the fact that it involves eight grown men, four dogs, and an unspecified number of mice in a small cabin in the woods, I wish I were going, too.

Posted by Brenda Layman

I'm planning to write a short series on favorite flies, so I've been asking fellow anglers to tell which flies they love and why. The answers are a wonderful mixture of practical information and poetic ramblings. So far, the Wooly Bugger is out in front, accompanied by tales of speckled trout and leaping bass. Small, hackled flies of various types figure prominently in stories of hitting the hatch with the kind of perfect timing that leaves you walking away with that dreamy fisherman smile on your face. The Muddler Minnow, favorite of days gone by, still enjoys great popularity. Some people want to tell about their own variation on classics, adding just a bit more flash or a little less fur. Personally, I like a deer hair hopper. So, as far as favorites go, who wants to share? What's in your fly box?