not something practiced much anymore but a gesture appreciated at certain times...i submit the following for your review.
on the occasion of impending battle - no matter the circumstance: "confusion to the enemy."
on the anniversary of the loss of a cohort - or at any appropriate gathering: "to absent friends."
with the proper glass and the use of either, one can not go wrong.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Thursday, November 3, 2011
guides
"oh christ. don't put that down. dead lions very often get up, believe me." that was glen cottar in 1971, in tanzania, at the conclusion of a hunt when i, exhausted from the tension, started to prop my rifle on the nearest bush. glen was the latest and last of the famous cottar clan to professionally hunt in east africa - a family put out of business when kenya closed all hunting in 1977. he was a mentor and became a great friend.
i've been very lucky in that regard. many of the guys who have guided me on my hunting and fishing expeditions have become lifelong friends - and most of them have been world class.
first there was captain bob tarr an old eastern shore waterman who taught me how to bait a duck - with corn - to deadly result [for the duck]. then there was harry "the heron" elsey who could glide through a marsh like his namesake and one day, many years ago, helped retrieve a hundred teal which made the mistake of sliding down a little back water creek into our 20 gauge arms.
later, when i started fishing seriously in the salt came gil drake, whose family owned deep water key long before orvis and frontiers took over the fly fishing business. some time prior, gil had moved to key west which was where i met him on the advice of guy de la valdene, a mutual friend. gil, guy, tom mcguane, and others had pioneered fly fishing for tarpon - together with more exotic endeavors - out of key west in the 70s. gil was not very patient with my untalented fly fishing technique and therefore passed me on to harlan franklin. before that happened we fought an epic battle - four hours - with a permit i hooked late in the day and lost in the black of night which gil - who saw it twice boatside - estimated to weigh 60 to 65 pounds. that would have beaten, if boated, the world record by a substantial margin. the only irony is that i had a take from a fish out of the same bunch that may have been 10 pounds heavier. the shallow area on which these fish, and others, were feeding - just outside key west harbor - is now known as hawk's flat.
harlan taught my son and daughter to "throw at the white spots" on the flats, which often contained a terrifically hungry and excited baracuda who, once hooked, would leap in great greyhounding arcs, all the while glaring at us with its huge, black predator's eye...very satisfying for a young fisherman and for which i will be forever in his debt. he and i specialized in permit - with the odd shark thrown in - and ultimately chased bonefish on andros with andy smith.
andy, one of charlie smith's 27 children, is the consummate fly caster and bonefish guide. his father created the "crazy charlie", an unassuming looking fly but one no self respecting, aspirant bonefisherman would be without. andy and i fished together a lot. i'll always remember his bahamian lilt on our first morning's meeting, "welcome to andros, hawk". we never caught any really big fish, though i hooked a couple but we always had fun. one day we went to the west side of andros, got stuck in the mud, saw a big sawfish with its legion of little jacks in attendance, cast to a hundred small permit to no avail [as far as i know permit never eat - flies at least], and i was admonished not to jump overboard to cool off, "no man. not here. bulls here." sharks, that is. a wild, wild part of the world.
closer to home, on the outer banks of north carolina, i ran into rob pasfield. we hunted false albacore in the fall with the rest of the small fleet of fly fishermen out of harkers island. that fishing goes from dead quiet to crazy madness in a heartbeat as the brilliantly swift little albacore tear into the baitballs - and are gone before one can make the first cast. one november i had a rookie join me for a couple of days. he wasn't rigged when we left the dock - a cardinal sin in this type of fishing, hell any type of fishing - and had no fly at the end of his leader when we came upon the first school just inside the hook. i had three fish to the boat before his shaking fingers finished knotting a clouser - and the fish disappeared. rob didn't laugh until later.
sally and i flew out to kenya to visit cottar's camp a few years ago. since we'd gone that far i figured oh hell, what was another 1500 miles so we went on to the seychelles to bonefish. as the little prop jet dropped down over st. francois, an old coconut plantation gussied up as an exotic resort, i peered out the window at bijoutier its neighbor and the huge ocean flats that surrounded the islands. arno matthee met us the next morning and thus began four days of the most exciting fishing i've ever had. i've written elsewhere of the adventures we had but two things stick out: meeting arno who became a friend forever and the extraordinary tidal activity. oh sure, there were fish of all kinds - and they were everywhere - but the water was like a live thing streaming off the flats so fast it left fish flopping on the bare sand, and as it returned climbing your legs like a silent slithery predator. to sally, small in stature, it was frightening...me - i checked to see how far away the boat was and whether we could make it there before this wild thing engulfed us.
in the newspaper there have lately been stories of al-quaeda related somali bandits raiding in kenya, kidnapping and looting in an area east of the tana river near a town called garissa. it is a part of the world claimed by both somalia and kenya, home of [in the old days] the shifta poachers who did so much to devastate kenya's elephants. it is also the place glen and i hunted elephant so many years ago - the taru desert. i wonder, my old friend - wherever you are - if anyone now there remembers us....
i've been very lucky in that regard. many of the guys who have guided me on my hunting and fishing expeditions have become lifelong friends - and most of them have been world class.
first there was captain bob tarr an old eastern shore waterman who taught me how to bait a duck - with corn - to deadly result [for the duck]. then there was harry "the heron" elsey who could glide through a marsh like his namesake and one day, many years ago, helped retrieve a hundred teal which made the mistake of sliding down a little back water creek into our 20 gauge arms.
later, when i started fishing seriously in the salt came gil drake, whose family owned deep water key long before orvis and frontiers took over the fly fishing business. some time prior, gil had moved to key west which was where i met him on the advice of guy de la valdene, a mutual friend. gil, guy, tom mcguane, and others had pioneered fly fishing for tarpon - together with more exotic endeavors - out of key west in the 70s. gil was not very patient with my untalented fly fishing technique and therefore passed me on to harlan franklin. before that happened we fought an epic battle - four hours - with a permit i hooked late in the day and lost in the black of night which gil - who saw it twice boatside - estimated to weigh 60 to 65 pounds. that would have beaten, if boated, the world record by a substantial margin. the only irony is that i had a take from a fish out of the same bunch that may have been 10 pounds heavier. the shallow area on which these fish, and others, were feeding - just outside key west harbor - is now known as hawk's flat.
harlan taught my son and daughter to "throw at the white spots" on the flats, which often contained a terrifically hungry and excited baracuda who, once hooked, would leap in great greyhounding arcs, all the while glaring at us with its huge, black predator's eye...very satisfying for a young fisherman and for which i will be forever in his debt. he and i specialized in permit - with the odd shark thrown in - and ultimately chased bonefish on andros with andy smith.
andy, one of charlie smith's 27 children, is the consummate fly caster and bonefish guide. his father created the "crazy charlie", an unassuming looking fly but one no self respecting, aspirant bonefisherman would be without. andy and i fished together a lot. i'll always remember his bahamian lilt on our first morning's meeting, "welcome to andros, hawk". we never caught any really big fish, though i hooked a couple but we always had fun. one day we went to the west side of andros, got stuck in the mud, saw a big sawfish with its legion of little jacks in attendance, cast to a hundred small permit to no avail [as far as i know permit never eat - flies at least], and i was admonished not to jump overboard to cool off, "no man. not here. bulls here." sharks, that is. a wild, wild part of the world.
closer to home, on the outer banks of north carolina, i ran into rob pasfield. we hunted false albacore in the fall with the rest of the small fleet of fly fishermen out of harkers island. that fishing goes from dead quiet to crazy madness in a heartbeat as the brilliantly swift little albacore tear into the baitballs - and are gone before one can make the first cast. one november i had a rookie join me for a couple of days. he wasn't rigged when we left the dock - a cardinal sin in this type of fishing, hell any type of fishing - and had no fly at the end of his leader when we came upon the first school just inside the hook. i had three fish to the boat before his shaking fingers finished knotting a clouser - and the fish disappeared. rob didn't laugh until later.
sally and i flew out to kenya to visit cottar's camp a few years ago. since we'd gone that far i figured oh hell, what was another 1500 miles so we went on to the seychelles to bonefish. as the little prop jet dropped down over st. francois, an old coconut plantation gussied up as an exotic resort, i peered out the window at bijoutier its neighbor and the huge ocean flats that surrounded the islands. arno matthee met us the next morning and thus began four days of the most exciting fishing i've ever had. i've written elsewhere of the adventures we had but two things stick out: meeting arno who became a friend forever and the extraordinary tidal activity. oh sure, there were fish of all kinds - and they were everywhere - but the water was like a live thing streaming off the flats so fast it left fish flopping on the bare sand, and as it returned climbing your legs like a silent slithery predator. to sally, small in stature, it was frightening...me - i checked to see how far away the boat was and whether we could make it there before this wild thing engulfed us.
in the newspaper there have lately been stories of al-quaeda related somali bandits raiding in kenya, kidnapping and looting in an area east of the tana river near a town called garissa. it is a part of the world claimed by both somalia and kenya, home of [in the old days] the shifta poachers who did so much to devastate kenya's elephants. it is also the place glen and i hunted elephant so many years ago - the taru desert. i wonder, my old friend - wherever you are - if anyone now there remembers us....
Thursday, October 27, 2011
opinion
for the republican candidates....
how about this for tax reform: flat tax between 15 and 20% [ no deductions] - the experts can figure out where - for all taxpayers - individual and corporate - onshore and offshore. no tax on the first $35 - 40,000 for individuals - the experts can figure out where [corporations no break]. home mortgage interest deduction for those [no matter what their filing status] making $350,000 or less [to stimulate the housing industry]. standard deductions for small businesses [35 or fewer full-time employees, part-timers excluded] - the experts to determine what qualifies as a deduction - i vote for the current rules. [small businesses are, after all, our job mills.]
debate that you meatheads.
how about this for tax reform: flat tax between 15 and 20% [ no deductions] - the experts can figure out where - for all taxpayers - individual and corporate - onshore and offshore. no tax on the first $35 - 40,000 for individuals - the experts can figure out where [corporations no break]. home mortgage interest deduction for those [no matter what their filing status] making $350,000 or less [to stimulate the housing industry]. standard deductions for small businesses [35 or fewer full-time employees, part-timers excluded] - the experts to determine what qualifies as a deduction - i vote for the current rules. [small businesses are, after all, our job mills.]
debate that you meatheads.
occupy wall street
just wait until these knuckleheads - at least in the northeast - run into a cold rain or below freezing temperatures or a serious snowstorm...then we'll see who occupies whatever. i'll bet the organizers are the first to bail. my advice...go home or to washington where you ought to be protesting whatever the hell it is you are protesting...at least the weather will be a little warmer for a little longer. you bloody idiots. in the meantime i urge my readers to pray for a hard winter.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
from alexandra fuller
.
..a few stereotypical british characteristics [not sure they are particularly good ones but they could go a long way towards describing my father]: "an allergy to sentimentality, a casual ease with profanity, a horror of bad manners, a deep mistrust of humorlessness...."
..a few stereotypical british characteristics [not sure they are particularly good ones but they could go a long way towards describing my father]: "an allergy to sentimentality, a casual ease with profanity, a horror of bad manners, a deep mistrust of humorlessness...."
tattoos
i'll bet none of you has ever tattooed a thoroughbred horse...well, i have. more than a thousand as a matter of fact. why would anyone do such a thing you ask? for identification purposes, that's why. when i, newly graduated from college with a totally useless degree in english, decided to strike out and seek my fortune i thought it best to start where [i thought] the money was...in those days that would be the race track [horses, of course]. through my teenage years i'd worked at the local track which ran, conveniently, during the summer so i had some connections. before long i found myself a night watchman's position guarding the preakness cup at pimlico race track in baltimore maryland - all the while waiting for the tattoo crew to show up so i could take on the position of tattoo technician [trainee]. i'll get to the part later why it was so easy to find the latter position - you can guess why the night watchman's job was open - boredom anyone? after stumbling through my reversed days and nights for two weeks, to my great relief, the crew arrived and i began my new career.
thoroughbred horses - at least those which go to the track - are tattooed on the inside of their upper lips. that's why if you watch pre-race activity closely you'll see a horse pause before a guy in the paddock who will reach up and roll its upper lip, look down at his program, then nod to the groom and look for the next suspect. i say suspect because there are multiple reasons to believe the horse before that guy is not the one named in the program...the one being bet on by the public. what if the groom bridled the wrong horse back at the barn? what if the horse was shipped in and the trainer didn't bother to check its i.d., i.e. the tattoo? you get the picture. anyway, tattooing was fun and simple for a strong young man until i got hurled around a stall by an obstreporous 4 year old which i should have known better than to try and tattoo to start with [most animals are tattooed at 2 or before their first race - this one had escaped that indignity for obvious reasons]. aside from that minor diversion, when asked, i accepted the position of horse identifier [junior] at the chicago circuit of three race courses.
once i got over the excitement of living in cicero [al capone's old hangout], having my one room apartment partially invaded and therefore carrying a gun at all times, watching, amazed, as a small tornado threw a starting gate through a wrought iron fence, and lunching in the jock's room surrounded by big name athletes i settled in to [junior] identification duties and the odd day of actual tattooing - at $4 a horse - all the while trying to cope with my [senior] identifier's extreme alcoholism.
then one day a groom brought to the paddock a dead horse - at least one whose owner claimed was dead - and the whole business of "horse identifier" came into focus. before the first race i would write the jockey club registration numbers of each horse on my partner's program. he would then, as the horses paused before him, roll their lips and confirm they were who the program said they were. suddenly one number didn't match...wrong horse. great consternation...calls to the stewards...scratch...money refunded...steward's hearing...alleged nefarious activity, etc., etc. great excitement actually.
shortly thereafter i declined an invitation to stay [over an illinois winter season] and "work the standardbreds", having realized the money wasn't where i thought it was, and returned home.
the other day i was visiting a friend's farm and an inquisitive sway-backed old nag wandered up to the fence i was leaning against. reflexively i reached up and rolled its lip. there was the tattoo...maybe one of mine?
thoroughbred horses - at least those which go to the track - are tattooed on the inside of their upper lips. that's why if you watch pre-race activity closely you'll see a horse pause before a guy in the paddock who will reach up and roll its upper lip, look down at his program, then nod to the groom and look for the next suspect. i say suspect because there are multiple reasons to believe the horse before that guy is not the one named in the program...the one being bet on by the public. what if the groom bridled the wrong horse back at the barn? what if the horse was shipped in and the trainer didn't bother to check its i.d., i.e. the tattoo? you get the picture. anyway, tattooing was fun and simple for a strong young man until i got hurled around a stall by an obstreporous 4 year old which i should have known better than to try and tattoo to start with [most animals are tattooed at 2 or before their first race - this one had escaped that indignity for obvious reasons]. aside from that minor diversion, when asked, i accepted the position of horse identifier [junior] at the chicago circuit of three race courses.
once i got over the excitement of living in cicero [al capone's old hangout], having my one room apartment partially invaded and therefore carrying a gun at all times, watching, amazed, as a small tornado threw a starting gate through a wrought iron fence, and lunching in the jock's room surrounded by big name athletes i settled in to [junior] identification duties and the odd day of actual tattooing - at $4 a horse - all the while trying to cope with my [senior] identifier's extreme alcoholism.
then one day a groom brought to the paddock a dead horse - at least one whose owner claimed was dead - and the whole business of "horse identifier" came into focus. before the first race i would write the jockey club registration numbers of each horse on my partner's program. he would then, as the horses paused before him, roll their lips and confirm they were who the program said they were. suddenly one number didn't match...wrong horse. great consternation...calls to the stewards...scratch...money refunded...steward's hearing...alleged nefarious activity, etc., etc. great excitement actually.
shortly thereafter i declined an invitation to stay [over an illinois winter season] and "work the standardbreds", having realized the money wasn't where i thought it was, and returned home.
the other day i was visiting a friend's farm and an inquisitive sway-backed old nag wandered up to the fence i was leaning against. reflexively i reached up and rolled its lip. there was the tattoo...maybe one of mine?
Thursday, October 20, 2011
a fishing story
this came to me from jim harker. please, jim, pardon the odd deletion.
"...here is a story about the best two days of fishing i ever had. years ago my brother ed, rest his soul, and i owned a 20' grady white cuddy cabin with a 4 cylinder i/o that on a good day could run to the 40 fathom ledge off ocean city, md. on 45 gals. of fuel. no sat nav, radar, gps, but with a vhs radio that could just about reach the guy in the boat at the end of the dock while in port. our life raft was a fancified inner tube. our tuna tower was standing on top of the cuddy holding on to the bow line. no penn internationals ever came aboard.
men have no brains when it comes to fishing, and we were no exception. 40 miles plus to blue water and the weed line was our goal, albeit the weather had to be just right. when the seas were 3-4 feet we pounded out our fillings trying to get out with the 40' posts and rybos. it was worse on the way in when afternoon breezes were in our face[s] and there was a 3-4 hour run to the inlet.
there was one weekend however when the weather was good and gas was still cheap. we headed out with a box of ballyhoo, a couple of large rigged squid and some home made teasers....that weekend we caught and released 17 white marlin and one small blue. incredible. at one point we had three fins in spitting distance. chaos ensued. oh to have known how to throw a fly. the last one we hooked came along side and i grabbed the bill to release it. it stared up at me with a large dark eye as if to say what the hell are you doing. after this we agreed that this was the last time we would target marlin....that was the best weekend [of] fishing i ever had. now i mooch off younger brother john who has a 32' offshore fishing boat with every imaginable electronic device and piece of tackle. the fishing is great but it will never be the same as in a small boat alone on a big ocean. it was the adventure as much as the fishing."
"...here is a story about the best two days of fishing i ever had. years ago my brother ed, rest his soul, and i owned a 20' grady white cuddy cabin with a 4 cylinder i/o that on a good day could run to the 40 fathom ledge off ocean city, md. on 45 gals. of fuel. no sat nav, radar, gps, but with a vhs radio that could just about reach the guy in the boat at the end of the dock while in port. our life raft was a fancified inner tube. our tuna tower was standing on top of the cuddy holding on to the bow line. no penn internationals ever came aboard.
men have no brains when it comes to fishing, and we were no exception. 40 miles plus to blue water and the weed line was our goal, albeit the weather had to be just right. when the seas were 3-4 feet we pounded out our fillings trying to get out with the 40' posts and rybos. it was worse on the way in when afternoon breezes were in our face[s] and there was a 3-4 hour run to the inlet.
there was one weekend however when the weather was good and gas was still cheap. we headed out with a box of ballyhoo, a couple of large rigged squid and some home made teasers....that weekend we caught and released 17 white marlin and one small blue. incredible. at one point we had three fins in spitting distance. chaos ensued. oh to have known how to throw a fly. the last one we hooked came along side and i grabbed the bill to release it. it stared up at me with a large dark eye as if to say what the hell are you doing. after this we agreed that this was the last time we would target marlin....that was the best weekend [of] fishing i ever had. now i mooch off younger brother john who has a 32' offshore fishing boat with every imaginable electronic device and piece of tackle. the fishing is great but it will never be the same as in a small boat alone on a big ocean. it was the adventure as much as the fishing."
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